Across The Fence

Remembering the Montagnards

2012-02-18T15:35:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #379

When I was asked to do the program for our next Sons of Norway meeting, I decided it was time to talk about my work with the Montagnards in Vietnam. I wanted people to know about these remarkable people. I bet most of you have never heard of them.

The term Montagnard means “Mountain People” in French and comes from the French colonial period in Vietnam. The Vietnamese called them moi, meaning “savages.” As the indigenous people of the Central Highlands, the Montagnards had a completely different culture and language than the Vietnamese. I had many misconceptions about the Montagnards when I first worked with them, based on what the Vietnamese had said about them.

All that changed after I got to know them. I loved working with the Montagnards and still hold a special respect and affection for them. They were primitive by our standards, but they were good and trustworthy people. I believe my helping them and gaining their trust and friendship helped keep me from harm and perhaps even death.

I spent many days on MEDCAP (Medical Civic Action Program) during my year in Vietnam. Volunteers were wanted to go out to remote Montagnard tribal villages and provide medical treatment, but they warned us that it would be dangerous. I decided if I was going to be killed, I’d rather go trying to help people. When we weren’t out on combat operations, we’d try to visit villages a couple days a week and spend the day providing medical treatment. We always had an interpreter along because we couldn’t speak the language. Many times, only Sgt. Ishe-the interpreter, and myself would go.

When I look back on the many times we headed out across small trails through the boonies in our jeep ambulance, I realize how lucky I am that we never hit a mine, a booby trap, or were ambushed. This was especially true when just the two of us went.

But it was all worth it. I had so many great experiences working with the Montagnards. There were also some heartbreaking times when I couldn’t help someone and they died. Many times it was because the village Shaman wouldn’t let the villagers accept our treatments. They had survived without modern medicine for centuries and it’s hard to change the old ways of providing sacrifices and bloodletting to appease the spirits and heal the people. It wasn’t until the mid 1950s, that many of the once-isolated Montagnards began experiencing contact with outsiders. A couple remote villages I visited had very little outside contact before we arrived.

I found it fascinating to learn about their beliefs and experience how they lived. There are so many stories to tell, and I’ll touch on some of them during the Sons of Norway program and show slides that I took of their way of life.

They practiced slash-and-burn farming. A village community would clear a few acres in the jungle by cutting down and burning the forests. They would farm that area for several years and then move on to another area. They hunted with crossbows and arrows and used spears. Clothing was minimal during the warm seasons. The men wore a g-string, the woman a wrap-around garment on the lower part of their body and nothing on top. Most young children wore nothing. Everyone was barefoot.

The traditional religion of the Montagnards was animism. This is a belief that spirits are active in all things in the natural world. There are both good and bad spirits. I was invited to sit in on rituals that often involved the sacrifice and blood letting of animals. Another practice I witnessed was a man making a large cut in his thigh to release any bad spirits that were inhabiting his family. It was part of a funeral celebration for a family member who had just died. He then took a red-hot stick and cauterized his own wound. All this was done without showing any sign of pain. They were a very stoic people.

There was a very sick young girl in one of my villages. Her only chance of survival was getting her to our base camp aid station where she could be fed intravenously. I wanted to start an IV and take her with us back to our camp. We wanted her parents to let me treat her, but village elders and the Shaman convinced them that she must remain in the village and let their Spirits heal her. No matter how much we tried, Sgt. Ishe couldn’t get them to change their minds. At the time I didn’t know all their beliefs, but now I understand why they wouldn’t let me remove her from the village. If she had died away from her village, her Spirit would have wandered the countryside for eternity trying to find its way home.

I remember looking into the little girls eyes as she lay on the mat in their longhouse. She was too weak to even move. It made me sick to know we could help her but weren’t allowed to. It wasn’t fair to that little girl. As I knelt beside her, I squeezed her hand before I left left. The next morning she was dead.

It was just another day in Vietnam, but that little girl’s death still haunts me.

*

Delia, A Very Remakable Lady

2012-02-12T18:21:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #378

Abraham Lincoln said, “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”

If there was ever a person who personifies that quote by Abe Lincoln, it’s Delia Stendalen from Westby. She’s not a complainer. She rejoices because thorn bushes have roses.

I recently interviewed Delia on our “Conversations Across the Fence” program on Vernon Communication’s Community Channel 14. I’ve wanted to interview her for a long time. She’ll be 98 on April 16, 2012.

Delia and I share common ancestors. Her grandmother and my great grandmother were sisters. Let me tell you a few things about this remarkable lady.

Delia still has the attitude that she can do anything she sets her mind to. She still drives her own car. Her license is good until she turns 103. She said they probably won’t want to give her a new one at that time. She still mows her own lawn and shovels her own driveway most of the time. Other people have tried to beat her to the punch and shovel it for her, but they need to get up mighty early in the morning. She usually has it almost cleared by the time help arrives. Two years ago she had the ladder up against the house and was clearing her gutters. Her daughters told her she shouldn’t be climbing up ladders and onto the roof any more and took her ladder away. So what did Delia do? She went to a neighbor and borrowed their ladder and then waited until dark to clean her gutters so no one would see her. Her daughters have now warned the neighbors to not lend her a ladder if she asks for one! Next time you have some aches and pains or don’t feel like doing something, think of Delia. She’s not about to let anything stop her. When a neighbor lady had problems pumping gas because of pain in her hands, Delia said she’d ride with and pump it for her.

This is a lady who never complains about thorns, she only sees the roses. I don’t think the words, “I can’t do it,” are in her vocabulary. At the age of 91 she went parasailing. She’d like to do it again. Even though she has a life-long fear of water, she went tubing on the river when she was in her 80’s.

Delia grew up on a farm near Bloomingdale, Wisconsin and as she puts it, she was her father’s right hand and later her husband’s right hand. She helped with all the chores, milked cows by hand, used a wheel borrow to take the manure out of the barn, piled hay bales on the wagons, climbed in tobacco sheds and helped hang tobacco, and the list goes on and on. While cutting tobacco when she was young, her sister, who was chopping behind her, accidentally cut her in the butt. People who have raised tobacco know how sharp those axes are. She said it bled a lot but they didn’t want her folks to find out, so they never told them, and she never had the cut looked at by a doctor. Another time she broke two ribs but kept on working despite the pain. I don’t know how she did it.

She’s a tough Norwegian and still drinks many cups of coffee each day, including one before she goes to bed. She also loves cookies and chocolates.

Delia finished eighth grade but wasn’t able to go to high school because she had to help on the farm. She was also an accomplished musician and played piano and accordion for many years in a band called The Prairie Ramblers. With money she had saved, she was able to buy a small accordion. She never had a music lesson and learned to play it on her own. Their band was in great demand, and they were even featured on a radio program in La Crosse. It was during a dance that she met her husband. He was playing in another band. Her daughters didn’t know she had been in a dance band until a few years ago. Delia is not one to brag about anything.

In her almost 98 years she has seen many changes. She saw the transition of going from farming with horses to using tractors. She went from riding in a buggy and sleigh pulled by horses to her first ride in a car. She saw her first airplane fly over when she was young and wondered how long it could stay up in the sky. She remembers first hearing a radio and was fascinated by the music that came out of it. She lived through those tough days of the Great Depression, but even when telling about it doesn’t complain. “Everyone suffered through it,” she says, “but we made due with what we had.”

Delia said, “When times were hard we just had to keep on going and we made it.” You don’t hear her complaining about the thorns of life, she just keeps her eyes on the roses. Later that day after doing the interview, three of us were at a conference. We came to a place where we could take the escalator or the stairs up to where our meeting was. Randi Smalley, who had done the videotaping during the interview, said, “What would Delia do?” The answer was easy; we took the stairs.

*

The Soulful Sounds of Winter

2012-02-05T11:51:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #377

What sounds do you think of when you think of winter? This week I had an e-mail from my long-time friend, Lowell Nordling, who lives in Madison. His message gave me the idea for a story. I told him I’d dedicate this column to him. He said, “I was thinking of you this morning. When I walked out for the paper, there was that special crunch to the snow that reminded me of walking across the yard on my way to school. Whenever I hear it I’m halfway across the yard, by the swing made from discarded telephone poles. It’s quite vivid. In trying to think of a way to explain it to those who have never experienced the pleasure of the sound I thought, ‘I’d like to hear Howard explain it.’”

OK Lowell, here goes. My mind transports me back to cold winter nights when the chores and milking were done. The last milk cans had been carried to the cooler in the milk house and deposited in the cold water. A dozen cats were busy lapping up the milk we had poured into an overturned milk can lid. The stillness in the barn was a sharp contrast to the loud noise of the vacuum pump motor that provided suction for the milking machines. With the motor turned off we could hear the snarling of the cats as they jostled for position to get their share of the milk. The jangling of the stanchions was heard as cows stretched, trying to pilfer remaining feed from a neighboring cow, before bedding down for the night.

As I headed for the house, the sound of my boots crunching snow crystals in the evening snow, created a soothing tempo with each step I took. I was headed for the warmth of our house and each step took me closer. The colder the night, the more it made a squeaky crunch as I made my way over the hard-packed snow. It shattered the stillness of the cold night. When I stopped to look at the stars, not a sound could be heard. My breath turned to clouds of smoke in the below zero air. Billions of stars could be seen in the crystal clear sky. It would be a cold night. I didn’t know at the time that many of those stars I was looking at were actually galaxies far beyond our Milky Way. I had no concept of the enormity of our universe at the time. I was experiencing the same sound of crunching snow and seeing the same celestial sights that my ancestors did when they walked through the snow on a cold winter night, long before I was born. Some things never change.

As I continued toward the house, a slight breeze made the windmill groan and creak for a moment. Then the silence of the night enveloped me again. The sounds, or lack of sounds, in winter are very soothing to those of us who cherish nature’s sounds over constant man-made noise. Snow creates a blanket that softens and muffles sound. It also provides a mirror that reflects light, making everything brighter. It can fill that blanket of snow with millions of sparkling diamonds. An evening walk in the snow is an experience that everyone should enjoy at some point in their life. It’s like Lowell said, it’s hard to explain the experience to someone who’s never had it.

Winter is also the chatter of Chickadees and the flutter of wings as they hurry to the feeder when I bring their food. It’s the sound of a flock of Mourning Doves taking flight from the safety of their evening shelter as I approach the grove of trees. It’s the evening call of the Barred Owl from those same trees, “Who, Who, Who Cooks for You.”

When the temperature dips below zero, you can hear the foundation of a house settle in as it snaps in the cold. It’s like venturing across a lake in the dead of winter and hearing the ice snap under your feet, sounding like a gunshot.

Winter is standing in the silence and beauty of large snowflakes falling all around you and catching them on your tongue. There’s no sound as they land, just a brief, cool moment before the warmth of your tongue returns the intricate, lacy designs back to water.

Winter is the sound of downhill skis chattering across the snow as you fly down a ski run on a cold evening in Wisconsin. My cousin-in-law, Lou, says you can always tell a Midwestern skier. They’re used to leaning forward, carving into icy snow, instead of sitting back and riding the powder runs they have in Colorado. It takes ice skiers a while to learn the technique of skiing powder. I also hear the gentle shush of cross-country skis as they glide across the snow, the cool wind stinging my cheeks, as I lick at the icicles that my heavy breathing has formed in my mustache. Night skiing with the stars surrounding you enhances the peacefulness and beauty of the moment.

Perhaps those are the words I’ve been looking for to describe these winter experiences. There’s a quiet, peacefulness and beauty of the moment that seems to permeate your soul and make you one with nature. It’s when you reach that point that you feel totally alive and that all is well with the world.

*

Searching for the Lost Kid

2012-01-28T20:40:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #376

Fifty degree weather, bare ground, dry roads, I knew it was too good to last. On January 12, winter finally arrived with its cold breath, and wearing a white coat that it left behind. It was just enough to blanket the ground. Since that first snow we’ve had several more close encounters with Old Man Winter. The latest was this morning when he laid down a coating of freezing rain and then dumped a layer of snow on top of the ice to cover up his treachery. I think I’ve had enough of winter now. Bring on the groundhog and let it be an overcast day!

Our driveway is a story unto itself. The wind that always seems to accompany the snow, deposited two-foot drifts in our driveway. It was winter as usual in Sherpeland. Next year I’m putting up a snowfence to try and stop the snow from filling the driveway. It’s worth a try. I wish I could find some snowfence like we had when I was young. It was made with wood laths instead of the orange plastic stuff I see around these days. I still think some old things are better than the new. It’s too bad all those old tobacco laths got buried with the old granary. I could get some flexible wire and string a fence together. I guess that would be more work than just blowing the snow out of the driveway.

There’s something about our driveway that seems to attract snowdrifts like iron to a magnet. In some places the wind will blow the snow away so you can even see the grass. Meanwhile, the driveway has two-foot drifts. It’s always so windy where we live that you don’t need a snowstorm to get snowed in. As long as there’s snow on the ground and wind in the air… we’ve got drifting.

And another thing, what is it about snowblowing that no matter what direction you blow the snow, it always blows back in your face. I look like a snowman when I’m done. Even my glasses get frosted over and icicles hang in my mustache. It doesn’t help that it’s usually dark and 50 below zero when all this takes place. Perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but it feels like 50 below. It’s just one of the many joys of enduring winter on Coon Prairie where the wind blows free and the temperature is always colder than the “official” recorded temps.

I guess I need to get in touch with that kid that used to inhabit my body. He loved frolicking in the snow. It’s hard to find him back these days. I wonder if kids today spend as much time playing outside in the snow as we did, or are they inside, watching TV, on the Internet, busy texting, or playing video games. In all fairness to them, we didn’t have any of those devices when we were very young. We didn’t have a TV until I was 10 or 11 years old. Computers, video games, and texting, were not in our vocabulary and unheard of to us.

Those thoughts came about during a phone conversation with Joel Thompson this week. We were neighbors and best friends when we were growing up. In those days you always wore clothes that an older sibling had outgrown. Since I was the oldest child there weren’t any used clothes in our family, so I inherited a lot of his hand-me-down clothes. He was a year older than me. Joel now lives in North Carolina so we don’t see much of each other, but we make use of new inventions like e-mail, that were alien to us when we were students in Smith School.

During our phone conversation, we recalled all the fun we had playing in the snow. We did a lot of skiing together. We wondered if kids still make ski jumps like we did on Birch Hill and many other hills, or is everything organized and supervised by adults these days. Perhaps we could have used a little supervision to keep from getting hurt or killed, but it wouldn’t have been half the fun, or as adventuresome, if adults had been telling us what to do. We were never bored or at a loss of what should we do next.

I recall one time when my brother, David, took a nasty fall off one of our makeshift jumps and hit his head on the hard-packed snow. Joel and I were standing at the top waiting to go down, while David was sprawled out at the bottom of the hill and not moving. We yelled at him to get out of the way so we could jump. The poor guy finally crawled off to the side. It wasn’t until we got to the bottom of the hill that we found out he’d seen stars when he whacked his head. Fortunately all of us were hard-headed Norwegians. David headed right back up the hill for his next jump. Later that day I took a header into the snow, scraped my face, and cut my lip. We wore those cuts, bumps, and bruises as badges of honor.

It was all part of a day’s adventures when we kids created our own fun outdoors in the snow. I need to search for that “inner” kid again and start enjoying all this new snow.

*

The Dark Winter Haymow

2012-01-21T14:27:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #375

A haymow at night can be a frightening place, especially to young, fertile imaginations that have grown up on stories of Trolls, Nisse, Boogeymen, and Tramps.

Summer was never a problem because the large haymow was empty and the cows had been let out to feast on fresh pastures, so we didn’t need to feed hay to them when we let them in for milking morning and night. There was no place for those scary creatures to hide in an empty haymow.

Winter was a different story. During the summer, we had been filling the haymow and when it was full, bales would be stacked nearly up to the cupola at the top of the barn. There was just enough room left at the top to walk around and have access to the open hay chutes to throw the bales down. It seems like it was always dark when we crawled up the handmade wooden ladder on the outside of the barn and entered the small door into the dark haymow. We carried a small flashlight because we didn’t have any lights in the haymow. Going into a haymow at night is like entering a cellar without turning on the light. It’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. It’s a perfect place for creatures of the night to hide and wait for unsuspecting victims to come along.

Is it any wonder that we hated to climb up in the haymow and throw down hay during the evening milking? We much preferred to crawl up in the silo and throw down silage. At least you didn’t have to worry about some horrible creature attacking you. There was no place for them to hide in the silo, even though it was dark and cold in there too; although raccoons have been known to seek shelter in silos.

During the summer when we were stacking bales in the haymow, we built a vertical chute for the two openings in the floor where we threw the hay down. We also built a chute that went almost straight up from the door opening. We piled the bales to form small steps so we had a way to climb to the top of the piled hay. In the dark, that narrow chute only added to the adventure.

Cats liked to make their homes in holes or crevices in the hay. It was a warm place to seek shelter on cold, winter nights. A cat suddenly springing to life and seeking a safer hiding place could make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. Shining the flashlight around in search of creatures waiting to attack you, only added to your uneasiness as the light created scary shadows in every corner of the barn.

My grandmother told stories of the Nisse that lived in barns in Norway. They could be very mischievous if you didn’t feed them rommegrot at Christmas. If any of them had stowed away on ships coming to America from Norway, we thought they could be living in our barn. We had never left a bowl of rommegrot for them. They would be very hungry and irritated after all that time. The Boogeyman that lived in dark places was also one of her stories. What better place than a haymow on a cold winter night. Even they needed a place to stay warm. Grandma Inga had a way of telling a story that made the little creatures come to life.

As we got older we knew those creatures were just found in stories, or so we hoped. But, what if a tramp, or a wild animal, had crawled up in the haymow to seek shelter out of the snow and cold wind? Dad used to tell about finding tramps sleeping in the hay of their barn near the railroad tracks when he was young. But that was when many men road the rails during the Great Depression. I think we could pretty much eliminate tramps when I was young.

That still left the possibility of some sort of animal making its home in our haymow. Raccoons could climb ladders. I knew skunks hibernated and I didn’t think they could climb a ladder, but I knew I never wanted to come face to tail with one.

All those images of possible creatures lurking in the haymow, certainly added to the stress of every trip up that ladder. It’s hard to hold a flashlight while lugging heavy hay bales to the chute and tossing them down. One time the flashlight followed a bale down the chute. I made as hasty an exit as I could, as I felt my way over the bales in the almost total darkness. I quickly exited the door before some creature could reach out and drag me back into the haymow. Luckily, the flashlight landed on the pile of hay and didn’t bust. Then it was back up the ladder and into the darkness again, to complete my interrupted job. It was always better when David and I ventured into the haymow together.

That old barn is gone now, along with the creatures of the night that may, or may not, have lived in the haymow. I never ran into any of them. They must have been real good at hiding. I’m just glad my days of climbing into a dark winter haymow are in the past.

*

Dale Nestingen Was "Mr. FFA" To Me

2012-01-14T15:09:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #374

Another beautiful sunset just ended the day. The daylight hours are slowly increasing each day. As I look out the windows from our four-season room where I do much of my writing, there’s still a pink glow on the western horizon. It blends into a deep blue higher in the sky. Venus shines brightly as the dark blue begins fading toward black.

We’re lucky enough to have great views of sunrises and sunsets every day. Our lives are a progression of sunrises and sunsets as we travel along the life paths we’ve chosen. During the past week, the sun has set for the last time for two important teachers in my life. I wrote about Corrine (Fredrickson) Zable last week. Six days later, Dale Nestingen, my high school Vocational Agriculture teacher and FFA advisor, passed away. He was 82.

As a farm boy I took Ag classes in high school. During those four years I learned about a lot of things and had experiences I wouldn’t otherwise have had. I’m proud to say I’m one of many students who earned the Wisconsin State Farmer Degree under Dale’s guidance. Even though many of us never became farmers, things we learned in his class have served us well in many other areas. They all added to our life experiences.

Aside from the book learning, we had many hands-on experiences that I remember. A farmer must be a jack-of-all-trades and know how to do many things. We learned how to test milk for butterfat content by collecting samples from each cow in small bottles during morning and evening milkings. At school we put the samples into a centrifuge to determine the butterfat.

There was a forge in the shop portion of the classroom where we learned about blacksmithing. We found it fascinating to heat the metal in the red-hot coals and then hammer and shape it into hooks and other useable items on the anvil. I can still hear the sizzle as we dipped the still hot metal into the pail of water to cool it. We also learned how to weld.

We learned carpentry skills. I built a crate to haul pigs in and a show box to use at the fair when I showed cattle. Both of those items survived until the day of the auction after my parents died. They were sold at the auction and are probably still in use today. Not bad for something I built 50 years ago.

We learned how to test the moisture content of corn, how to judge dairy cattle, how to dehorn calves, and yes, I even learned how to castrate pigs. My father never liked that job, so it became my job to do the “surgery” while he held the pigs down. I could even mention making oyster stew but that’s another story! All these things were learned through the teaching and guidance of Mr. Nestingen. I still find it hard to call him Dale.

We also learned leadership through the FFA (Future Farmers of America). It was a compliment to the 4-H programs that most of us farm kids were involved in. During my senior year I was president of the Westby Chapter. It afforded me many experiences I would never have had if I hadn’t been involved in FFA. It included trips to officer’s training classes, the Wisconsin State FFA convention for two years, the national convention of the American Institute of Cooperation held at the University of Minnesota campus in Minneapolis, and the National FFA Convention in Kansas City, Missouri. There was also the 3-day senior FFA trip to Chicago by train from La Crosse. Those trips and experiences may not seem like much to most people these days, but back then, we were farm kids who had seen very little of the country outside the borders of Vernon County.

Our involvement in the Vocational Ag program and FFA provided many learning experiences for us and expanded our horizons. We learned that we were capable of doing many things. It forced me to become involved in public speaking, something I’d been petrified to do before that time.

While I was president I also wrote and edited a bi-monthly newsletter called the “Westby Future Farmer.” I guess even in high school I wanted to be a writer. I found back some of those issues, buried in a box of stuff in the basement. I’d like to share a message I wrote in one of my Messages from Your President.

“We owe a lot to our advisor, Mr. Nestingen. Since he came to Westby (during our freshman year), our chapter has had two American Farmer Degrees (Robert Erickson became the first, and Larry Strangstalien became the second, to achieve this honor from Westby). Twelve members have achieved the Wisconsin State Farmer Degree, and David Meyer became the vice president and president of the Wisconsin State FFA. We’ve had representatives at the National AIC convention for two years, won co-op awards, state awards, and many other accomplishments too numerous to mention. Without his help and initiative, none of these things would have been possible. The Westby FFA, Westby High School, and the community, can be proud to have Dale Nestingen.”

The sun may have set for Mr. Nestingen, but it will continue to rise and shine brightly for all those “farm kids” he helped, as we continue their journey through life.

*

A Teacher Who Made A Difference

2012-01-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #373

Corrine Zable made a difference in many lives. She’ll always be “Miss Fredrickson” to those of us who had her as a young, single teacher at Smith, our one room school, south of Westby. Corrine passed away on December 29, 2011. She died as a result of head injuries she received when she lost control of her bicycle just before Christmas. Her death brought sadness to her former students.

We’ve all had some good teachers and some “not so good” teachers. Once in a while we even encounter a great teacher. Corrine falls into that category. She inspired us, opened our minds, and created a fire in us to learn all that we could about life.

Corrine grew up on a farm west of Viroqua. In 2nd grade she recalled sitting at her desk and thinking: When I grow up I’m going to be a teacher; they know where the good books are and they always have plenty of paper to write on. She said she only had one teacher in grade school that gave her any encouragement. She vowed that she would encourage all her students if she could become a teacher. After high school she attended Vernon County Teacher’s College in Viroqua. We were her first students after graduating.

One of her teachers at the Teacher’s College, Naomi (Flugstad) Bekkum, had these thoughts about Corrine. “She was an outstanding student. She had a great desire to learn and to be a good teacher.”

Corrine was a faithful reader of “Across the Fence” and sent me many e-mails commenting on stories and telling me of her remembrances of teaching at Smith School. I’d like to share some of her observations on teaching and life with you. She said, “My years with all of you kids were a joy for me. I loved teaching and didn’t want you kids to miss anything just because there were over 20 of you, and because you were farm kids like I was.”

Corrine told me, “I always gained more from my students than I ever gave to any one of them. I’m proud to have been your teacher and to have shared life with all the Smith kids when I taught there! You kids were so very special; no wonder I loved teaching!!”

She also shared many observations about life. “All of life is precious, too precious to be wasted! The happiness of life depends so much on the quality of our thoughts!” She liked Ralph Waldo Emerson’s quote, “What lies behind us, and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” “I used to tell my students that writing makes you explore and know what you really think about life and things. Thank you for your writings and making people think about things.”

Here’s what some of Corrine’s former students said about her:

David Sherpe: “She will always be ‘Miss Fredrickson.’ She was one of those teachers and people who have helped make a difference in many people’s lives. She was a great teacher and a wonderful person. She was even a good softball pitcher. Yes, sometimes she would even pitch during recess. I think it was to encourage everyone to play ball together and to get involved. Her concern for her students and everyone was genuine and sincere. She was part of our small community and our lives. If Smith School was still there, I think you could go there now and find her. Thank you Miss Fredrickson.”

Beverly (Jasperson) Kratt: “I talked with my sister, Donna, about Corrine. What we remember is that she was such a great teacher, cared so much about all of her students, and wanted them to succeed. She encouraged each of us and awarded each success. Within the last twenty years she had a home in Viroqua close to our grandmother. Donna and I met with her and so enjoyed our visit. How many teachers remember their students? We treasured our time with her and were so blessed to have had Corrine as a teacher in our educational process. I had always wanted to be a teacher – instead I worked within the university system – I feel her compassion and understanding assisted me with the relationships that I developed with peers and students. We lost a great educator.”

Sharon (Midtlien) Gilbeck said: "I stayed after school to do some things one day, and after everyone else was gone, she burst into tears… she was feeling so bad, because she couldn't get some students to learn what she was trying to teach them! That's my best memory… how she REALLY CARED about each and every student."

Joel Thompson: “Corrine was the most conscientious, helpful, inspiring, loving teacher I had in my life. She gave me something that has stayed with me for my whole life, “A Thirst For Knowledge.” I can still remember her helpful smile as she prodded each one of us to do better. I don’t remember her chastening anyone, but always had a loving attitude of help. I’m sure the Lord told her when she got to heaven, ‘Well done good and faithful servant’.”

Another quote that Corrine liked to put on the blackboard from time to time was by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: “Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. And, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time.”

Corrine certainly left behind many footprints. Now those footprints keep multiplying as her many students, from Smith School near Westby, Kohler, Taiwan, and Burma, continue to leave footprints where hers left off. Her death reminds me again how important the role of great teachers are in our lives. She will live on in each of us who were lucky enough to have been her students.

*

Brown Christmas Stirs Up Memories

2012-01-01T07:21:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #372

I look out our windows and see a world of brown, with some pale green thrown in. It’s December, the day after Christmas, and the temperature at our place registered 44 degrees for a high today. It’s December in Wisconsin, 2011 style.

I’m not complaining. Those are just the facts. I could get used to winters like this. I know this is just the calm before the storm, but every day like this makes winter seem that much shorter, and it helps with the heating bills too.

I remember how cold and snowy it’s been during Christmas in the past. There were times when it was so cold the car wouldn’t start when we visited the farm during Christmas. Our kids never got to spend Christmas at our home in Madison when we lived there. We were always traveling to Platteville or Westby where our families lived. In the early years we’d spend Christmas Eve with one family and head down the road on Christmas morning to get to the other family before noon. At least it was only an hour and a half drive, except when the roads were bad. It was nice because we could spend time with both families, and grandparents always want to see their grandchildren at Christmas.

As most of you know, it’s hard to coordinate brothers and sisters in both families and try to find a time that works for everyone to get together. They have a second family to coordinate with too. Our poor kids never did have a Christmas at home, but somehow Santa always knew where they were on Christmas Eve and presents were waiting for them in the morning.

Some years we split the holiday, spending Christmas with one family and the closest weekend with the other. That was easier than packing up and heading for the other family in the morning, when the kids wanted to play with whatever Santa had brought. We were always at the mercy of the weather too, both snow and cold temperatures.

One year while in Platteville, it was so cold a tire went flat while we were attending the Christmas Eve candlelight service. Have you ever tried finding a service station open on Christmas morning that could fix a tire? We were late heading for Westby that year.

Other years it would be snowing and blowing and the roads would be snow-covered and slippery. It was great spending time with both families, but I don’t miss the stress that added to the Christmas season. I imagine most of you can relate to that same scenario at one time or another.

I don’t remember very many mild, brown Christmases during those days. I’d have welcomed the type of weather we had this year. Most were filled with lots of snow and very cold, windy weather. That made for drifting snow and slippery roads.

It also seemed like just mentioning the words, Thanksgiving and Christmas, was enough to bring every flu bug in three counties out of hiding. My sister, Janet, said, “When the kids were little, it didn’t seem like it was the holidays unless someone was on antibiotics.” How true that was, and probably still is, for all of you with younger children. It was usually the stomach flu, which made for interesting times when you were traveling and on the road. One year when we were going to Platteville for Thanksgiving, Erik came down with the flu in the morning when we were going to leave. Since we had planned on eating at Linda’s folks we hadn’t bought anything to have around the house. I checked several places that morning trying to find a place that had take-out turkey dinners. I finally settled on turkey sandwiches from the old Rennebohm Drug Store in Madison. They also had a lunch counter. At least we had turkey even if it wasn’t with all the trimmings. Poor Erik couldn’t eat anything that Thanksgiving. When I think of Thanksgiving, it seems that we usually had snow on the ground at the time and never saw the grass again until sometime in March. Now we’re heading toward the end of the year and everything is still brown.

Back to those white and brown Christmases. When we were young we always went to my Hanson grandparents, or to one of the aunts and uncles. Weather was never much of a problem since most of us lived within a couple mile radius. Most of us could have walked or skied across the fields if we’d had to. The only one that had to travel any distance was Ma’s brother, James, who lived in Indianapolis. He had a movie camera and took home movies of our get-togethers. He usually brought some movies of past visits to show us. James worked for American Airlines and got to fly places around the world that the rest of us had only heard about. He brought movies from those visits to show us too. Those places were exciting to see, but the highlight for us kids was a short Woody Woodpecker cartoon. Remember, this was before most of us had a television, or if we did, we only had one channel. Cartoons were a big deal to us.

These memories were all triggered by the brown December we’ve been experiencing. It just shows that you don’t need a white Christmas to remember.

*

The Best and Worst of Times

2011-12-25T11:29:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #371

It’s time to open the door to a new year and see what awaits us on the other side. We never know what adventures, opportunities, and challenges we’ll encounter. Only time will tell.

I imagine many of you are looking forward to New Year’s Eve parties where you’ll welcome the New Year in with toasts, cheers, funny hats, noisemakers, and the singing of Auld Lang Syne. Did you know the words of that song mean “the times gone past; the good old days.”

I’m not much of a party animal anymore, so I’ll just try to stay awake long enough to say that I saw the New Year arrive. Once I kick back in my Lazy Boy I don’t always make it. I’m like one of those dolls whose eyes close when you put them in a horizontal position. Even three-quarter horizontal will do it for me. The dropping of the ball in Times Square often takes place as I’m wandering around in dreamland, with a distant voice somewhere in the fog that sounds a lot like Dick Clark, counting down the remaining seconds in the old year.

As we look back on the old year that we’re leaving behind, the words of Charles Dickens from A Tale of Two Cities, comes to mind, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” That probably applies to most people. We all have good times and bad times. Hopefully, the good times far outweighed the bad for all of you. Just remember, when you sing Auld Lang Syne, you’re waxing nostalgic for the good old days.

I have some friends who would just as soon leave the old year far behind. It hasn’t been the best of times for them. Heart attacks, cancer diagnosis, injuries in an auto accident, arthritic problems, knee replacements, hip replacements, jobs being eliminated, and the list goes on and on. Needless to say, most of my friends are card carrying AARP members. Senior citizen status is not for sissies! Many of my best friends are fellow Vietnam vets. We may no longer be lean, mean fighting machines, but there’s still plenty of fight left in us.

That reminds me of the story about a C-130 that was lumbering along when a cocky F-16 flashed by. The jet jockey decided to show off. The fighter jock told the C-130 pilot, “watch this!” and promptly went into a barrel roll, followed by a steep climb. He then finished with a sonic boom as he broke the sound barrier. The F-16 pilot asked the C-130 pilot what he thought about that.

The C-130 pilot radioed back, “That was pretty impressive, but watch this!” The C-130 droned along for about five minutes and then the C-130 pilot came back on and said, “What did you think of that?”

Puzzled, the F-16 pilot asked, “What the heck did you do?”

The C-130 pilot chuckled. “I stood up, stretched my legs, walked to the back of the plane, went to the bathroom, got a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll, and then came back to the cockpit and sat down.”

When you are young and foolish, speed and flash may seem like a good thing! When you get older and smarter, comfort and unexciting is not such a bad thing! We older folks understand this one. It’s called S.O.S.... Slower, Older and Smarter.

On the flip side of Dicken’s saying, it’s also the best of times. Those friends who’ve encountered problems during the past year, are still alive and above ground. They have positive attitudes and have enough life experiences to know that the road we travel is not always paved, and sometimes filled with potholes. When we hit those roads, we adjust our speed and continue on our journey, slower, older, and smarter, just like the old C-130 pilot.

As we open that door to the New Year, we know it’s filled with new adventures and possibilities. It holds excitement for our family, but that’s another story. It also holds more of those moments that money can’t buy; the sun rising out of a morning fog; golden sunsets that change every day–each more breathtaking than the next; towering storm clouds rolling across the prairie; deer grazing in the back yard–always on alert; water rippling over the rocks in a peaceful trout stream; the soothing sound of the wind ruffling the leaves of the trees and making the oats move like waves on an ocean; the smell of new-mown hay; corn shocks standing like sentries in a field, lined up in perfect formation as they disappear over the hill; the sound of a windmill cranking in the wind on a hot summer day; following animal tracks in a blanket of new-fallen snow; snowshoeing through a woods as large flakes of snow fall around you; sitting quietly in a fall woods and watching the leaves drift lazily to the ground; hearing the sound of turkeys calling nearby; and the sound of a Loon echoing across a lake as the water gently laps against a canoe.

Being aware of nature all around us, and taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells; these are the intangible things that add to our lives and often become the best of times, even if you’re going through the worst of times. Enjoy them all. Happy New Year everyone!

*

The "Blue Spruce" of Sunshine Prairie

2011-12-19T19:53:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #370w (Christmas Extra)

It was a beautiful fall day in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Sunshine Prairie was awash in beauty and splendor from all the trees decked out in their finest fall colors. Butterflies were flitting from flower to flower, drinking in the finest nectar the kingdom had to offer before the flowers began to fade as colder weather arrived.

Princess Sonja sat among the flowers at the base of Three Rock Chimney. It was a great day to soak up some sun and find a little solitude from her job as the fairy princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. She was always being called upon to help someone with their problems. Sometimes, even a fairy princess needed to get away and enjoy some peace and quiet.

But things were not as peaceful as she had hoped. She sensed some tension and sadness in the air and it seemed to be coming from Christmas Tree Lane. The White Dove who had been resting atop Three Rock Chimney, flew down and landed on Princess Sonja’s shoulder. He whispered in Sonja’s ear. “I feel the sadness too,” she said. “Lets take a stroll over to Christmas Tree Lane and see what we can find.”

Sonja and the White Dove walked through the field of fading wild flowers, stopping occasionally to talk with a flower that greeted them as they passed. The beautiful day had all the flowers in a good mood, but even the flowers sensed that their days were numbered and that sadness was coming from the grove of Christmas trees.

As they entered Christmas Tree Lane, Sonja felt the sadness growing stronger. They followed the lane between the trees in the direction it was coming from. All the trees greeted them as they passed. Sonja had a feeling she already knew the problem. They finally came to the tallest tree in the grove. It was Bruce the Blue Spruce. Sonja greeted Bruce with a smile. “What’s wrong, Bruce, you seem bluer than usual today?”

“I know Sonja, but I can’t help it. They came yesterday, selecting trees that would be used for Christmas this year. I wasn’t selected again. I’m just a tree; I’ll never be a Christmas tree. Last week Jack and Jill came up the hill to find a place to be alone. They sat down where you are, took one look at me, and said, ‘Have you ever seen such an ugly tree.’ I tell you, it almost made my sap run.”

Sonja sat down in the shade next to Bruce, and the White Dove flew up and perched on one of his branches. He was in need of some love and positive reinforcement. Life had not been easy for Bruce. He had suffered many tragedies. In his early years, some cows in a pasture that bordered the field of young Christmas trees, were searching for greener grass on the other side of the fence. Several of them got out and came straight through the grove of young trees. One of the cows stepped on Bruce, breaking several of his limbs and leaving a very noticeable crink in his trunk. Rumor has it, the same cow was seen jumping over the moon that night, the same night that a dish ran away with a spoon. There were some really strange happenings that night, but that’s another story.

Back to that cow that stepped on Bruce. The farmer who owned the orchard considered ripping him out of the ground and planting a new tree in his place, but they must have forgotten about him after all the excitement of the cow jumping over the moon and that dish running off with the spoon. That same night three blind mice ran after the farmer’s wife and she ended up cutting off their tails with a carving knife. Have you ever seen such a sight in your life? After all the excitement, the farmer forgot all about Bruce and never came back that first year to replace him.

He managed to survive all his injuries, but was never the same. The older he became, the more noticeable his crooked trunk became. Several of his limbs never grew back and he ended up with a funny shape. He was not a beautiful tree. The owners even gave up trying to shape him into a Christmas tree, so his odd shape always stood out among the perfectly groomed trees. Each year he was bypassed when people came through selecting Christmas trees. Not only didn’t anyone select him, but several people would make snide remarks about how ugly he was and why didn’t someone just cut that tree down and get rid of it. Poor Bruce, the people didn’t know he could understand them and how much it hurt his feelings. That’s when the other trees began calling him Blue Bruce Spruce, because Bruce was not only a Blue Spruce, but was always feeling blue.

Many years had gone by since the cow stepped on him, and now Bruce was much taller than the other trees, because people looking for Christmas trees had selected most of the friends he had grown up with. A new generation of trees was now growing up around him. Bruce felt very much like an outcast and very much alone. His favorite story had become The Ugly Duckling. He hoped that someday, someone would find beauty when they looked at him.

Princess Sonja knew how much he wanted to be a beautiful Christmas tree. In the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, he felt like that ugly duckling. She felt sorry for him but didn’t know what she could do to make him feel better. She hoped someone would come along this year and select Bruce for their tree.

As she was trying to find the right words to cheer Bruce up, several birds landed in his branches and started chatting with the White Dove. There was much joyous singing and Sonja listened carefully.

“We know Bruce is unhappy,” one said, “but we hope no one selects him for a Christmas tree again this year. What would we do when the cold winds and snow arrive this winter? Each winter, we’ve found shelter in his branches. He’s the only tree in the grove that has branches strong enough to hold all of us. The heavy snow coats his branches, providing a protective layer. We huddle together in the shelter of his branches and are able to survive the coldest nights. What will we do if Bruce leaves us? How will we survive?”

Sonja smiled. “Did you hear that?” she asked Bruce. “The birds need you. If you aren’t here, what will happen to them?”

“But Sonja, all my friends have left the grove to become Christmas trees in someone’s home. I hear people decorate them with wonderful lights and ornaments. Everyone proclaims how beautiful they are. No one has ever called me beautiful. They just make remarks about what an ugly tree I am. Just once in my life, I want people to say that I’m beautiful too. I bet even Charlie Brown wouldn’t pick me for his Christmas tree!”

Sonja thought for a few moments before answering. “Bruce, those friends of yours had one shining moment. Granted, they were all decked out for a short time and were beautiful. But that kind of beauty is fleeting, it doesn’t last forever. After Christmas, their useful life is done, and most are discarded on the curbs of the homes that chose them. You’re still here. You’re still alive. You’re still useful. The birds need you, and the animals that make their homes on the ground under your protective branches need you. You’re loved by all of them and you’re never alone.”

“I know that, Sonja. I’m glad I can provide shelter and protection for my feathered friends and animals, but just once I’d like to be all decked out in lights and feel beautiful.”

Bruce felt a little better after talking with Princess Sonja, but he still felt ugly, and knew there was nothing he could do to change his appearance. He would just have to try and change his attitude.

The mild weather of fall soon transitioned into the chilly days of early winter. The first snowflakes rode in on the cold winds of December and a blanket of snow soon covered the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. All thoughts turned to Christmas and people began arriving at Christmas Tree Lane to select their trees. Bruce kept hoping someone would stop and say, “That’s the tree I want this year.” But as usual, everyone passed him by, looking for the perfect tree.

The birds and animals that found shelter from the cold and wind among his branches, were glad that Bruce was still standing tall. Even in the cold weather, Bruce was so blue his sap was running. Princess Sonja couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to do something and she had a plan.

After gathering up all the items she would need, she sent the White Dove ahead to round up as many birds and animals as possible to help with brightening up the life of Blue Bruce Spruce. When Sonja arrived at Christmas Tree Lane everyone was excited and ready to go to work. The birds grabbed strings of lights and began wrapping them around Bruce. A Whitetail Deer family volunteered to pull and lay the extension cords to the nearby farm buildings where the owners of Christmas Tree Lane lived. It took many rolls of cord to reach from Bruce to the buildings, where they managed to plug the cord into an outside outlet. Then they hurried back to let Sonja know they had accomplished their mission.

Sonja and the birds had strung hundreds of lights on Bruce. They had added strands of shiny garland on his braches to help reflect the light. It was starting to get dark by the time they finished. Bruce had never been decked out with anything so fine. He was starting to feel better and his sap even quit running. All the birds and animals surrounded the tree at a distance, as Sonja plugged the strands of lights into the extension cord. Suddenly Bruce lit up like a Christmas tree and his light brightened the fading light. Everyone let out a collective gasp. The light snow that had begun to fall added to the scene. They had never seen a tree this beautiful before.

Cars traveling on Three Rock Chimney Road began to stop and people got out of their cars to admire the beautiful Christmas tree, standing tall, in the middle of Christmas Tree Lane. They all remarked that they had never seen such a beautiful tree. Some of the birds flew to where the cars were parked to see how Bruce looked from there. When they returned they told Bruce, Princess Sonja, and all the assembled birds and animals what the people were saying. Bruce was overflowing with pride and happiness. He had never felt so good and stood up even taller.

Now, every Christmas, Princess Sonja and Bruce’s friends decorate him. People come from all parts of the land to admire the most beautiful Christmas tree in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Bruce is still a Blue Spruce, but no longer feels ugly and blue. He grows a little bigger each year and still provides shelter for his many friends during the entire year. Bruce has learned that beauty is fleeting, but a useful life, providing for others, far outshines the short time each year when everyone thinks he’s beautiful.

Life is very good on Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty! May your life, wherever you find yourself, also be filled with beauty and life, and may you have a wonderful Christmas.

*

Santa Is Definitely A Woman

2011-12-17T18:46:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #370

The ground is bare and there’s no snow in sight around Sherpeland. The past few years we’ve been buried in snow by this time. Unless things change in the next week, I fear Santa will have a hard time with his deliveries in this area. But then, he never seems to have any problems in the southern parts of the country, so I don’t think I have anything to worry about.

I know this is just the calm before the storm, but to tell the truth, I could get used to winters like this. It’s nice not having to put on five layers of clothes, boots, heavy gloves, and a double-layer stocking cap, just to walk to the end of the driveway and get the mail. Last year I even had to resort to using my snowshoes to get to the bird feeders. I got tired of opening a path every day, only to have the wind drift it shut as fast as I could blow it out.

Put it this way, I’m not dreaming of a white Christmas. I’ll let Bing dream about that. When I was young, I’d have been entering panic mode if there was no snow this close to Christmas. I still have vivid memories of listening to the radio on Christmas Eve as they gave reports on the sightings and progress of Santa and his reindeer. As they got closer, it was time to set out a plate of Norwegian baked goods for Santa. Everyone who stopped at our house was fed and given coffee, even Santa. Although Ma left a glass of milk instead of coffee, because she said the coffee would be cold by the time Santa arrived, and not even Santa liked cold coffee. We even left some carrots for the reindeer. They get hungry too, pulling the heavy sleigh, Santa, and all the presents.

Christmas is an exciting time for children. We need to retain some of that childhood magic of Christmas as we get older.

In Ben Logan’s wonderful book, “Christmas Remembered,” he has a story called “Santa Claus Is a Woman.” He tells how his family all waited around for someone to make Christmas happen that first winter after his mother had died. He remembered that Christmas was a casualty of her death.

Ben and I have talked about that story and the feelings he had as a 17-year-old boy whose mother was no longer there to make Christmas happen. It got me thinking about my mother and how important she was to our family at Christmas. We didn’t know it at the time, but she was Santa Claus, just as Ben Logan said his mother was in his story.

Our father bought the tree and set it up in the stand, but that’s usually where the role of most men ended in making Christmas happen. Then the women took over. Ma brought down the boxes of lights and ornaments that were stored in the upstairs walk-in attic. She strung the bubble lights, hung the ornaments with the help of us kids, and let us put the icicles on the tree. When we got older and could reach, we got to put the angel on top of the tree. That was a special job. She then opened the red, folded paper bells, fanned them out to form a bell shape, and hung them from a door. I haven’t seen one of those bells since I was young.

When the tree was ready, she decorated the house, hand-addressed and wrote on all the Christmas cards, baked all the Christmas cookies and other Norwegian goodies, and bought and wrapped the presents. The house came alive with the Christmas spirit when she was done.

When I was young and still believed in Santa, it was Ma who comforted me and reassured me that Santa was real and would still bring presents after Sandy told me there was no Santa Claus. Just because we didn’t have a fireplace was no reason for Santa to skip our house. He could always use our front door that was never locked. And no, he wouldn’t get burned up in our wood-burning stove if he came down the chimney. Santa had magical powers and could even make himself small enough to squeeze through the damper in the stovepipe. I couldn’t understand how he could also squeeze his bag and our presents through there, but he always did. He ate all the cookies and drank the milk we left for him too.

Yes, the women have always made Christmas happen. My mother turned the rituals of the season into memories that I still carry and bring to life again each Christmas season.

I know all the pictures we see of Santa show a large man in a red, fur-lined suit, with a bushy, white beard. But tell me this, have any of you ever seen the “real” Santa on Christmas Eve? Not just those Santa’s helpers that you see in the malls. We never saw him, but he always showed up after we had finally fallen asleep. I’m willing to bet, that if we had been lucky enough to catch even a fleeting glimpse of Santa, it would have been a small, thin, woman wearing an apron, and bearing a striking resemblance to my mother.

It’s just like Ben Logan said, “Santa Clause Is a Woman!”

*

Sandy and Christmas Memories

2011-12-10T16:42:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #369

What’s your earliest memory of Christmas? Looking way back, my first memory of Christmas is hoeing tobacco with my cousin, Sandy. I couldn’t have been very old, because I still believed in Santa Claus. Sandy, being three years older and wiser when it came to the mysteries of the universe, suddenly dropped a grenade at my feet that literally blew my world apart that day.

Even though it was a hot summer day, our conversation had turned to Christmas and Santa. Sandy suddenly proclaimed, “There is NO Santa Claus, Uncle and Auntie are Santa Claus.” You can imagine my horror at hearing such a blasphemous statement. In that moment my world started collapsing around me and the sky began falling. If you have my second book, “Across the Fence: Down Country Roads,” you can read the full story on page 131.

Thank goodness my mother came up with answers to all the questions that Sandy had brought up. They were such great answers, I still believe in Santa today! I guess you couldn’t see me wink as I wrote that line.

But, is it any wonder that I remembered where I was and what I was doing at such a moment. It’s just like we remember where we were when President Kennedy was shot, and when the attacks on 9-11 occurred. Traumatic experiences always leave an imprint on our memories.

Many years after that traumatic experience in the tobacco field, Sandy and I found ourselves alone, and far from home and our families, during Christmas in 1965. I was in basic training in the army at Fort Lewis, Washington. We were halfway through basic and weren’t allowed to go home for Christmas. It was like we were in prison and it’s not one of my best Christmas memories. Not only were we “prisoners” during Christmas and New Years, but it was a zero week–it didn’t count since it was holiday time for most personnel who weren’t in basic. That meant we’d spend an extra week in basic training.

On Christmas Eve day it snowed and rained while we were marching all morning. It was really miserable and we got soaked. The snow didn’t stay on the ground. It just turned to slush and our white Christmas quickly disappeared.

That evening we were marched in formation, to and from the Christmas Eve service at one of the chapels on the base. That’s about the only thing that reminded us that it was Christmas. What a joke. I remember how sad everyone was as we sat through that service. It was the saddest Christmas I’ve ever spent. It was even worse than spending Christmas in Vietnam.

On Christmas day, the sergeants let us sleep in until 0600. That was late for us. After pushups and pull-ups we got to eat breakfast. Then we were herded back to our barracks and ordered to GI and spit-shine the barracks and latrines. When everything was to the Sergeant’s liking, I got to march our platoon around our company area for police call. After that we got to stay in our barracks and take it easy until noon.

Sandy was also at Fort Lewis during this time. We weren’t allowed to make or receive phone calls during basic training, so I wasn’t able to see or talk with her. Her husband, Lou Wagner, was an officer with the 1st Cav Division. They had trained at Fort Lewis before being shipped to Vietnam, where he was spending that Christmas, far from home and his family. Sandy and other wives were living on post while their husbands were gone. This is what Sandy later wrote about that Christmas day:

“When Karl (their son) was five months old, Lou’s company shipped out for Vietnam and I stayed on post with Karl. Howard was at Fort Lewis for basic training at that time. Lou was in Vietnam, it was Christmas, I was alone, and wanted very much to spend some time with my cousin. For some reason, the basic trainees were not allowed any visitors. After some serious phone calls, tears, and threats, I was finally able to spend some time with Howard on Christmas day. That was a real sad time for both of us. Seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season.”

I did get to see Sandy for a short visit that afternoon. After being told on the phone that she couldn’t see me, she came to Battalion Headquarters and talked to the O.D. (Officer of the Day), and explained that her husband was in Vietnam and I was the only relative she had around. She said she also shed some crocodile tears for him. The O.D. finally relented, and gave her permission to see me for a short time in a conference room. An armed guard came to our barracks and I was escorted by him to where Sandy was. He stayed with us while we got to visit for about fifteen minutes, and then he escorted me back to my barracks–a distance of about one block! That night we got to watch training films about the Vietnam War.

I echo Sandy’s words, seeing each other for a short time, was the only bright spot in that Christmas season. Santa brought us a great gift that day… a short visit. Even Sandy had to believe in him after that.

*

Thanksgiving Leftovers Are Great

2011-12-04T16:40:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #368

Now it begins, that month of anticipation between Thanksgiving and Christmas. As I write this, I’m still as stuffed as the huge turkey our family met up with on Thanksgiving. We were at our daughter and son-in-law’s home near Ixonia, and we certainly didn’t starve. Now we’ve entered the second phase of Thanksgiving—enjoying all the leftovers.

I’ve never been accused of being a great cook, or even a mediocre one. My cooking ability is heating up the charcoal grill, throwing on some hamburger patties or brats, and making sure they don’t get burned to a crisp. I’m not the second coming of Julia Childs.

However, I do have a great recipe for all those leftovers from the big Thanksgiving meal. Dig through your cupboards and find a large microwavable bowl with a cover. Take some of the leftover potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, chunks of turkey, a large helping of stuffing, and grab anything else that looks appetizing. Throw everything into the bowl. Don’t worry about stuff getting mixed together. As you can see, I’m not a picky eater. You might want to leave the cranberry relish and herring out for the time being. They don’t mix very well with the other ingredients. The cranberries tend to turn to juice when heated.

Put a cover on the bowl and shove it into the microwave. The microwave is my preferred method of heating stuff up. The amount of time you heat the concoction is up to you, depending how hot you like your food. When you think it’s hot enough, take it out of the microwave. Remove the cover and sample the mix to see if it’s heated to your satisfaction. If it is, dump the cranberries, herring, and some pickles into the mix, grab a fork, and eat right out of the bowl. That’s if you’re eating it all by yourself. If you have to share, it’s best to scoop some onto a plate. If you get to eat right out of the bowl, you’ll have a lot less dishes to wash up after you’re done. Why use a bunch of bowls when you can get by with one? Next, find a football game to watch on TV, take that bowl you heated everything in, grab some lefse, a beverage of your choice, sit back in your favorite recliner, put your feet up, and enjoy your great meal of leftovers! I hope you had a little pumpkin pie and sweet potato pie left over like we did. As they say at Borgen’s Café in Westby, “Don’t forget the pie!”

I know all this probably sounds like a mess to you. Granted, it’s all mushed together, but it tastes great, and it’s all going to the same place anyway. OK, I told you I wasn’t the next Julia Childs. It’s not for everyone.

Even before the leftovers had cooled down, Black Friday arrived. I hope none of you were part of those frenzied mob scenes I saw on TV, as shoppers stormed the doors, trampling each other in their hurry for a bargain. You couldn’t drag me to a store with a team of horses on Black Friday. I’m enjoying my leftovers as people are fighting with each other and pepper spraying other shoppers in order to snag that coveted item. I keep hearing how bad shape the economy is in, but you’d never know it by the way people were spending money.

Then just when you think the buying frenzy is over, along comes Cyber Monday. In case you missed out on the bargains on Black Friday because you got trampled or pepper sprayed, you can now sit in the comfort of your home and shop online. No traffic jams, no parking problems, no masses of people to contend with. I wonder if they ever had this kind of buying frenzy in my parent’s generation? I suspect not. I know they always shopped locally in Westby and Viroqua for our Christmas presents. There was a “Dime Store” in Viroqua. I can still remember how awe-struck I was when I saw all the toys on their shelves during Christmas. Looking back, it amounted to one small section of the store, but we thought it was wonderful. We’d probably have died of shock if we could have walked into a huge Toys-R-Us store like they have today.

Another of the happenings after Thanksgiving is over, is the hanging of the Christmas lights and decorations. I know the stores have been decorated since Halloween, but that’s just too early.

Now I’m about to begin an early phase of Christmas—the untangling of the strings of lights. It’s a yearly tradition in most homes. No matter how carefully you put them away, they manage to get all tangled up. Then after I manage to get them untangled, I find out the lights won’t light up. You’d think I’d learn to test them before spending all that time untangling them.

Soon the first Christmas card will arrive. Then I’ll start feeling guilty about not having my cards all picked out, addressed, and ready to send.

There’s only one solution to all this holiday stress. Round up another helping of Thanksgiving leftovers, throw them in the microwave, find a station airing White Christmas with Bing Crosby, then sit back and enjoy those leftovers while watching the movie. Christmas will come soon enough!

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My First 18 Months Were Eventful

2011-11-26T15:57:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #367

When we went through all the stuff in the house after my parents died, I came across the Viroqua Hospital bill from when I was born. It’s dated May 14, 1944, ten days after I came kicking and screaming into this world.

I was born on Thursday, May 4, 1944 at 5:40 p.m. at the old Viroqua Hospital. I weighed in at 7 lbs, 5 ozs., assisted in my arrival by Dr. Lars Gulbrandsen. My baby book says that I resembled my father. The only other thing mentioned is under “What amuses the baby?” Music is listed. Maybe that’s why I still like listening to the Big Band music from the 1940’s. More on that later.

Back to that hospital bill, it’s itemized, and includes ten days in the hospital for my mother and me at $4.50 per day for a total of $45.00. Other costs were: anesthetic - $2.50, dressings - $2.00, delivery room - $5.00, drugs - $3.00, and nursery – ten days at $1.00 per day: $10.00. It comes to a grand total of $67.50! No matter what happens, I can always say I’m worth at least $67.50. No one can ever say I’m worthless.

Things have certainly changed since those days. That was a lot of money for my folks at the time. They were renting a farm, and my grandmother and my cousin, Sandy, lived with us. In those days people were more self-sufficient. Those were the war years when everything was rationed and times were tough for everyone. At least farmers could produce a lot of the food for their own family.

Some interesting numbers from 1944: the average wage was $2,400, minimum wage was 40 cents per hour, a new house cost $3,450, a car could set you back $1,250, gas to power that car was 15 cents per gallon, a loaf of bread cost 10 cents, and you could mail a first class letter for 3 cents. Now before you start wishing you could pay those prices for things, would you work for $200 a month?

When I checked to see what notable events happened in the world on the day I was born, nothing is listed. There are events on May 3rd and 5th, but it looks like my birth on May 4th did not make the notable events list. Well, at least it was notable to me! On May 3, meat rationing ended in the U.S., “Meet Me In St. Louis” opened on Broadway, and the movie “Going My Way” staring Bing Crosby, was released. On May 5, Gandhi was freed from prison and the Russian offensive began against Sebastopol. I bet some of you remember those events.

A major event occurred when I was 34 days old. On June 6, D-Day began when 155,000 Allied troops hit the beaches of Normandy, France in a major offensive against the Germans. On June 15th, 128,000 U.S. Army and Marine troops began landing on Saipan in the Pacific Theater of operations against the Japanese. That December was the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge. While I enjoyed my first Christmas, in the warmth of our house on the Hauge farm, Allied and German forces were locked in a life and death struggle in the bitter cold and snow during that battle. While I was celebrating my first birthday, the battle for control of Okinawa was being fought. It was one of the largest and bloodiest battles of the war. I wasn’t aware of any of those epic events at the time. The only thing that concerned me at the time was getting my next meal of baby food, a bottle of milk, and having a dry diaper. The fighting men on Okinawa had much bigger problems, but they were also concerned with getting food, water, and staying dry in the rain and mud. Americans suffered 75,000 casualties on the ground on Okinawa. The events taking place involving World War II dominated the news during the first 18 months of my life. It was a historic time to be alive.

What was life like for you during World War II? I’d love to hear your stories and include some of them in Across the Fence.

I mentioned that music was said to amuse me when I was a baby. What songs was I listening to in those years? How about "Shoo-Shoo Baby," "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," "Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree," and "Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrew Sisters. Who wouldn’t be amused and love songs like that? The Mills Brothers had hits like "Paper Doll" and "You Always Hurt the One You Love." I still love their music. Bing Crosby ruled the charts with such hits as "I’ll Be Seeing You," "Swinging On A Star," "People Say We’re In Love," "Moonlight Becomes You," and many more. There were songs by Les Brown with Doris Day, Glenn Miller and his Orchestra, Jimmy Dorsey, The Ames Brothers, Vaughn Monroe, Harry James, Johnny Mercer, Duke Ellington, Judy Garland, The Ink Spots, and of course, Frank Sinatra.

I still love all that music from the 40’s. It’s the music I cut my teeth on. Music played a big part in keeping people’s spirits up, both at home and on the war front, during that momentous time in our history. It also kept a young baby, that cost $67.50, smiling on a farm near Westby!

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Much To Be Thankful For

2011-11-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #366

Happy Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving is the time to give thanks for all that we’ve been blessed with. This Across the Fence column certainly falls into that category for me. It’s a privilege to visit across the fence with you each week. I realize how lucky I am to be able to write a column that runs in newspapers where people can actually read it. Many writers would give their right arm for such an opportunity. Fortunately, I’m left handed! A big mange tussen takk (many thousand thanks) to all of you!

This begins the eighth year of “Across the Fence.” I keep looking down into the well to see if it’s running dry. Luckily, there haven’t been any droughts yet, and after a little priming of the pump, I’m able to pull up enough thoughts and words to fill another column. I’m always thankful for readers who help prime my pump by giving me ideas and topics to write about. It’s appropriate that the anniversary of this column falls during Thanksgiving week each year. It’s the perfect time to thank everyone.

My thanks again to Richard Brockman, publisher of the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa, and Dorothy Jasperson-Robson, Editor of the Westby Times in Westby, Wisconsin, for providing a “door of opportunity” for me. I was able to open and walk through that door eight years ago, and start writing this column.

A special thank you to everyone who visits with me each week. I appreciate when I hear from you, whether it’s on the street, by letter, or over the Internet. Your comments help keep me going and energized.

Not only is this Thanksgiving week, but it’s also the deer gun season in Wisconsin. Thousands of orange-clad hunters will be roaming the woods and fields in search of that elusive trophy buck. I wish you all a safe and successful hunt. We had lots of snow on the ground a week ago that would have made for great tracking, but it’s all gone now.

I wasn’t sorry to see it melt. It’s just too early for winter to arrive. I’m still trying to get over the notion that those beautiful fall days are behind us and cold, snow-filled days lie ahead. It gets to be a mighty long winter when there’s snow on the ground from early November into April. Now we can get a new start on the snow, hopefully after Thanksgiving. Mid-December would be a fine time for the next snowfall. The older I get the more I dread the long winters, especially the sub-zero temperatures. On the flip side of that coin, I’ve got to admit, the countryside was beautiful with that new white coat.

The moon was full last week and reflected off the snow. It gave the night landscape a special brightness. It was the type of night that made for many great cross-country skiing experiences over the years. There’s something special about gliding over the snow on a moonlit night. The snow glistens and sparkles like it’s filled with diamonds. It’s very exhilarating and makes you thankful to be alive and able to enjoy it. I’ve said many times, that snow softens the sharp edges of the world and brightens, even the darkest corners. Even a long, cold winter has its good points.

That reminds me of a note I got from a reader last winter in response to a story. He said, “All the seasons had their good & bad points. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night. We’d stop to carry an armload of wood, while on our way in. Then of course there’s the prideful feeling of working so hard making hay all day in the summer, and seeing the cows walk out to the pasture after milking, knowing mom had food on the stove, waiting for us when we finished milking. I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin.”

Another reader wrote that when she’s driving in the pre-dawn or evening hours and sees the warm glow from lights in barns and houses around the countryside, it makes her feel as if all's right in the world.”

Both of those reader’s comments carry a message of hope and thankfulness. There’s much that is right in this world if we just look around us. Most of the time it’s the little things that mean the most. It’s the things that money can’t buy.

I know I’ve mentioned this before. A friend once told me he enjoyed my column because it reminded him of a box of chocolates… you never know what you’re going to get each week. Many of you have said you enjoy the positive stories, when so much of the news we hear and read about today is negative. I’ll keep trying to stir up good memories with positive stories for you, provide a mix of chocolates to give you some variety, and also make you think about this wonderful world we’re all a part of.

I look forward to meeting you here each week, “Across the Fence.” Until next time, I hope you have a great Thanksgiving.

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North Dakota Prairie Raises Questions

2011-11-12T16:53:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #365

As we traveled mile after mile after mile after mile, across the flatlands of North Dakota, on our way back from Høstfest in Minot, this old Norwegian-American did some thinking and reflecting about the lives of our ancestors. I couldn’t help but wonder how the early settlers survived the experience, and wondered how we would fare if we found ourselves in their place.

In many parts, the land is so flat you can see the horizon in every direction, without even a small hill to obscure your view. A few patches of trees dot the landscape, but they’re often few and far between, especially when you’re used to the hills and valleys of Wisconsin’s Driftless Area.

Many Scandinavians headed west from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa, to find land on which to homestead. When I looked out at the wide-open landscape, I couldn’t help but wonder what their life was like and how they survived. It must have been a very isolated existence. Farms would have been few and far between. How did they get the supplies they needed in those early days? Even today it’s often a long journey between towns.

Those first settlers couldn’t have farmed too much land, because they didn’t have the use of tractors and large combines, like farmers do today. Now the land is filled with large fields, with few fences in sight. It would be hard to find a place where we could talk across the fence.

Winters must have been brutal. I know how the winds howl across Coon Prairie where we live. There’s nothing to slow down the wind and drifting snow in the winter. I can’t even imagine what winters must have been like for those early settlers in their log and sod houses on the wide-open plains? When winter arrived in all its fury, they must have been isolated until spring.

Many thoughts went through my mind as I looked out our bus windows and wondered about their lives: There were no telephones, radios or televisions. They had no electricity and all the modern appliances and conveniences we’re used to. Even wood to cook with must have been scarce. How did they go about getting water to drink, take baths, and wash clothes? It’s not that easy to drill a well, and from what I could see, streams and rivers were not as plentiful as in Vernon County where I live. Perhaps the early settlers tried to locate their farms near sources of water.

What did they do in the case of a medical emergency or accident? I imagine many people died or simply disappeared and vanished off the face of the earth. In genealogy, you often hear about an individual or family who headed west to seek their fortune and were never heard from again. I suspect some died from illness and accidents. Perhaps some froze or starved to death during the long winters.

At that time, in the mid-to-late 1800’s, Native Americans still occupied the territory. I can’t imagine them being very happy about all the white people taking over their homeland and hunting grounds. As more settlers arrived, they were forced off their land and life as they and their ancestors had known it for thousands of years, would never be the same. Dealing with unhappy Native Americans must have been a part of their life on the prairie.

Fast forward to today. How many of us could do what our ancestor’s generations did? I suspect very few of us would survive. We are too dependent on others and outside sources to provide the majority of the things we need to function on a daily basis. We panic if the electricity is disrupted for even a short time. It knocks out all the appliances that we depend on for survival and entertainment. I know all too well, how people complain if their TV has occasional blocking. Our ancestors certainly had bigger things to worry about.

What would we do if we found ourselves on a piece of land in an isolated area, with no cell phone, no computers, no television or radio, no stoves, refrigerators, washing machines, and no car? Our only possessions were a team of horses or oxen, and some bare necessities that we could fit into a wagon. How many people would know how to build a simple shelter and even survive one winter? That gives me great appreciation and admiration for those generations who did survive. They were tough and resourceful.

I think of my ancestors who pioneered small farms in Vernon County in the 1850’s. They must have been a tough bunch of Norwegians. Knowing how dependent I’ve become on modern conveniences, I wonder how long I’d survive if I suddenly found myself in the conditions they lived through?

Looking out across the North Dakota countryside, posed a lot of questions in my mind regarding the lives of our ancestors, whether they lived on Coon Prairie, or on the immense Dakota prairies. We live in the present with all our modern conveniences, but every once in a while, it’s good to remember the past and keep an appreciation for the people who lived during those times.

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I Salute All Veterans

2011-11-06T14:57:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #364

A cool, strong wind greeted us as we exited the car. The large American flag atop the flagpole stood straight out and rippled in the wind. Welcome to The Highground, a 140-acre veteran’s memorial park west of Neillsville, Wisconsin on Highway 10.

Recently, Harlan Springborn, Larry Skolos, David Lewison, and I took a trip to The Highground. It was the first time for Larry and David. Harlan, Larry, and I had been together in Vietnam. David, from Viroqua, went to Vietnam after we came home, but was also stationed in the Central Highlands and operated in the same areas as we had. We had all grown up as farm boys in Vernon County. We had a lot in common.

A year ago, Harlan and Larry were with me at Westby High School when I was the guest speaker during the Veteran’s Day program. Don Hanson and Ray Slaback were also there. It was the first time all five of us had been together since we left Vietnam. Another year has now been added since that reunion and we’re all still above ground. We realize how lucky we are to still be here.

Veteran’s Day holds a special meaning for us, because it was one day after Veteran’s Day, 45 years ago, that we came close to becoming names on The Wall in Washington instead of living veterans. I mentioned last year how we were almost overrun that day by 1,500 NVA soldiers. We were saved at the last minute when “Puff the Magic Dragon” and napalm-carrying jets finally arrived.

We have much to celebrate and be thankful for. Our trip to The Highground, during this time of year, was to remember those who didn’t survive. As we stood by the Vietnam memorial statue, the chimes that are part of the sculpture, were singing in the wind. We were thankful that our names aren’t engraved on one of the chimes. They hold the names of the 1,181 Wisconsin men who were killed or are still missing. We know we could easily have been among them. We’ve now enjoyed 45 bonus years.

Back in 1988, I wrote the following for the dedication of the Vietnam memorial. It’s called “Coming Home.”

“Listen, I can hear them coming, there are voices in the wind. If you sit and listen quietly they will speak to you again. They tell of years of waiting since they first marched off to war, searching for a quiet place to silence the battle’s roar. Some place to show this country we’re proud of who we are. We supported each other in battle and we’ll support each other now. We’re coming home to The Highground, no more are we to roam. We’ll rest upon this hilltop, at last we’ve found a home.” I wrote those words for the Spirits of those who didn’t make it home, and for the mentally and emotionally wounded Spirits of those who survived.

It took most of us a long time before we sought out other vets. As close as we are now, it took Harlan, Larry, and me 32 years before we got back together. I don’t know why it took us so long. Perhaps Ray Slaback, who finally reunited with us last Veteran’s Day summed it up best. It was not wanting to revisit those horrible memories from our past, that took him so long to reunite with guys he had shared those experiences with. There are a lot of ghosts still with us.

Those of us who survived that battle on November 12, 1966, were finally able to talk about it among ourselves. After 45 years it’s still too hard to talk about with others. I tried writing about it once, thinking that people need to know what really happens in war, in all its gory details, but I tore it up and threw it away. Some things are just too personal to share with anyone. On this trip we never even mentioned that night. There was no need to. We were still here to celebrate another Veteran’s Day together and that’s all that mattered.

We celebrate the day each year, but what exactly is a veteran? Too often, I think people associate veterans with having served in a war zone. Unfortunately, we’ve had way too many wars and too many veterans fall into that category. But a veteran is anyone, man or woman, who has served at any time in any branch of the military. Very few of us had any say in what our MOS (job) would be or where we would serve. Many people served during peacetime. Yes, there have actually been brief periods in our history when we haven’t been involved in a war some place in the world. The people who served during those times were trained and ready to go to war if needed.

I was born a month before D-Day in World War II. I have tremendous respect for the men who served during that war. I can’t imagine the hardships that they and our Korean veterans endured. Their numbers are dwindling every day, just as peacetime veterans and Vietnam veterans are disappearing too. Most veterans have nothing good to say about war, but the majority of veterans stand together, united as a band of brothers and sisters, and proud of having served, regardless of when and where. I salute all of you!

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Someone Has To Win

2011-10-30T09:23:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #363

“We just drew your name and you’re the winner of the 1977 Corvette!” Those were the words I heard when we answered the phone on Friday night, October 21. “Is this a joke? Who is this?” I thought someone was pulling my leg. The caller explained that I had just won the Valley View Rotary Classic Car raffle in La Crosse. They were calling from the drawing for the car celebration party at the La Crosse Center. I heard cheering in the background. I couldn’t remember ever buying a ticket. My mind was still spinning as I tried to remember where I had bought a raffle ticket.

The woman I was talking with assured me it wasn’t a crank call. I was the winner of the Corvette. As we continued talking, I was still in my skeptical mode because I still couldn’t remember buying a ticket. We arranged for me to pick up the car at Brenengen Chevrolet near Valley View Mall on Monday at 4:30 pm. I asked how much the IRS would want from me, because I knew they always got their money when someone wins a larger prize. A man came on the line to explain that the IRS required a 28% gambling tax on the value of the car. There’s no free lunch. I needed to pay the tax before the car could leave the lot.

When we finally hung up, I was still searching my memory for when and where I had bought a ticket. I guess I was still skeptical, so I went on the web and googled Valley View Mall Rotary. Holy cow, there were pictures of a burgundy-colored 1977 Corvette, and a notice that the drawing would be held on October 21. It was for real! I read through the rules of the raffle to see if that would jog my memory. The tickets were $10 or three for $20. Then I remembered. I had bought the ticket during the Westby Syttende Mai, way back in May, at the Classic Car Show. I remembered they were trying to sell me the three for $20, a better deal, and I said it only takes one ticket to win.

I never buy raffle tickets thinking I’m going to win. I think most of us buy them to support the organizations. They were also donating money to the Freedom Honor Flight program to send World War II vets to Washington. I’m pretty “fugal” when it comes to buying raffle tickets, but that was a cause I wanted to donate to, or I wouldn’t have spent $10. Is it any wonder I’d forgotten about a purchase I’d made six months earlier?

So now we have a 1977 Corvette. I’d never even sat in one before. They’re interesting to get in and out of, but once you’re seated and fastened in, it’s like sitting in the cockpit of a race car. I’ve never had a sporty-looking car before. People will probably think I’m having a “late-life” crisis if they see me driving around in this car. I’m way past the “mid-life” crisis stage.

I bought my first car when I was 23 years old and had just returned from Vietnam in 1967. It was a used, 1965 Chevy Impala. While driving it on the way to Fort Knox, Kentucky, I found out why the previous owner had gotten rid of it. It was an oil burner. I joked that every time I filled up the gas tank, I added a quart of oil. It wasn’t far from the truth.

Every car we’ve ever had has been a Chevy. I’ve even had a couple Chevettes. Not exactly in the same league with the Chevy Corvette, but I liked them. They usually got me from Point A to Point B without too much trouble, and they suited my frugal pocketbook. I had a used, Chevy Impala that I remember. It was yellow with a brown, vinyl top. Actually the top was several shades of brown and black and peeling off in spots. The yellow exterior had nice, brown rust spots of varying sizes. I called it my Ghetto Cruiser. I could have left it unattended in the toughest sections of Chicago and no self-respecting thief would have touched it. I’ll need to be a bit more careful where I park this Corvette.

When Linda and I went to La Crosse to pick the car up, my brother, Arden, rode along. You should have seen Arden and me getting into the car for the ride back to Westby. If you’ve ever gotten in and out of a Corvette, you know what I’m talking about. It had been a long time since I’d driven a stick shift, but it didn’t take long to get the hang of it again. The worst part was hitting rush hour traffic as we were leaving. I didn’t want someone banging into us before we even got it home.

Corvette’s are not exactly a Wisconsin winter mode of transportation, so it will go into storage at the first hint of snow, and not emerge until spring. Then I think I’ll have to do a little cruisin’.

I used to say, if my name was the only one in the hat, they’d draw out the hat size. I guess I can’t say that any more. Someone has to win, and this time I was the lucky one.

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Sleepy Hollow-een

2011-10-23T08:02:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #362

The other day we were driving around, when I started noticing all the roads with Hollow in the name. It brought back memories of Sleepy Hollow. How many of you remember “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” by Washington Irving? I remember watching Walt Disney’s animated version on The Wonderful World of Disney in the mid-1950’s when I was young.

It had the gangly schoolteacher, Ichabod Crane as the main character and was narrated by Bing Crosby. It also had a dark forest and the scary headless horseman. I don’t remember a lot of details about the story, but I know it was exciting and frightening.

I remember the headless horseman chasing after Ichabod as they rode through that dark forest, with the branches of the trees reaching out like skeletal fingers, trying to grab Ichabod—Pretty scary stuff. A perfect story to remember as Halloween approaches.

There’s always something magical about Disney animation, and when you add Bing Crosby narrating and singing, you have the makings of a wonderful film. Ichabod was the underdog in the story. He was everything that we associate with the non-hero type of person. I think most of us like to stick up for the underdog and see them win. We see ourselves as underdogs too, and can relate to them.

I prefer the Disney animated films to the horror films, usually associated with Halloween. Even before I went to art school, I wanted to be an animator for Walt Disney Productions in California. I even wrote a letter to Walt when I was still in grade school, telling him I hoped to work for him some day. I never did hear back from him. I suspect he had more important things to do, and received many letters like that every day. It’s probably a good thing I never headed off to California to seek employment with Walt, or my life would have been completely different and I wouldn’t be writing this story now. Life seems to offer us paths that we can choose to travel, but just as Ichabod found out, some of the paths we choose can be pretty scary at times.

Halloween has changed a lot in my time. When I was young, I don’t remember going trick or treating. When you lived in the country, you couldn’t just walk door to door and collect more candy than you could eat in a month, as kids do today. In our case, our father would have had to drive us from place to place. He was busy milking cows and we were busy helping with the chores. My mother didn’t drive.

I think our Halloween celebration happened in our one-room country school, where we had a party on a day close to Halloween. We bobbed for apples, and had a fish pond where a sheet was strung up and we took turns fishing. The pole had a line attached to it with a clothespin on the end. When you put the line over the sheet, older kids behind the sheet attached a small prize. They pulled on the line so it felt like you’d caught a fish, and you brought up your prize. I don’t remember what the prizes were, but they were probably pretty simple. The dressing up we did was called Hobo Day. I think that was all part of our Halloween celebration.

When our kids were young, they always went trick or treating around our neighborhood. Linda or I went with them and stayed on the sidewalk while they went up to each house. One of us stayed home to dish out the candy to kids who came to our house. We just went to houses where we knew the people, not to every house within a mile radius, as some kids seemed to do. One year I got into the act too. Linda’s brother, Lon, and his family, lived in Middleton. We drove to their house, where I put on a mask and wore an old trench coat. When the kids rang the doorbell, I knelt on my knees between them. When they opened the door, we all said “trick or treat.” But the trick was on me. They knew exactly who that big kid was between Erik and Amy. “Aren’t you a little old to be trick or treating?” I guess I should have stuck to tipping corn shocks and outhouses. I’ve heard tell, people used to do those activities on Halloween.

Halloween can also be a cold time of year. Many times it’d be raining and very cold. The kids would be all dressed up in their Halloween outfits and then have to wear a coat over the top to go trick or treating. That kind of defeated the whole purpose of dressing up. They could just as well have dressed up in long johns, heavy parkas, mittens, and a ski mask to cover their face, and gone door to door that way. At least they’d have been incognito and warm.

They also had Halloween parties at their school, except for a couple years, when it was decided by the powers-to-be in Madison, that it was not politically correct to dress up with masks, because some people might be offended or frightened. At least Halloween was later reinstated, so the kids could enjoy the occasion and have some fun memories to look back on too.

Happy Hollow-eening everyone!

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Across the Fence: Roads Less Traveled

2011-10-19T20:50:00.000-07:00

Book #5
Now Available
$16.00
Contact Howard Sherpe
to purchase a book.

A Norsk Høstfest Experience

2011-10-15T16:07:00.002-07:00

Across the Fence #361

We recently went on a four-day bus tour to Minot, North Dakota, where we attended Norsk Høstfest, the largest Scandinavian festival in North America. Being of Norwegian ancestry, a Norwegian folk art wood carver, and loving all things Scandinavian–even lutefisk, a visit to Høstfest was a must at some point in my life. I imagine many of you have also attended over the years.

Marjorie and Elnor Haugen, relatives from Coon Valley, had been to Høstfest before and had decided to go again this year. They encouraged Linda and me to go along. We signed up last spring, and soon discovered that several other people we know from the Westby area would also be going; Jennings and Lois Bjornstad, Tip and Eleanor Bagstad, Janet Johnson, and Sandra Peterson, would be on the same bus as us. Other friends were leaving with a different tour group a day before us, so the Westby area was well represented at the festival.

This was the first bus tour for Linda and me, and we had a great time. It’s nice to sit back, relax, enjoy the scenery, and let the bus driver worry about where to go. We were part of Glenn’s Motorcoach Tours out of Rochester, Minnesota.

At 3:30 on Wednesday morning, we sleepily boarded our bus at the pickup point in La Crosse. I envy people who can sleep on a bus or plane. It would certainly make the trip pass faster. After several stops in Minnesota to pick up other passengers, and some rest stops, we finally arrived at our hotel in Bismark, North Dakota, twelve and a half hours later.

The next morning we were back on the bus by 8:00 a.m. for the almost two-hour trip to Minot. Due to the devastating flood earlier this year, many places where people had stayed in previous years, were still closed. We drove through parts of Minot, near the Høstfest grounds, where entire neighborhoods will have to be torn down. The destruction from the flooding was very evident.

I had no idea what to expect from Høstfest, but knew it was a large event. As we entered the grounds, I was surprised by how many tour buses and RV Campers I saw. The campers alone, must have numbered a thousand or more, and surrounded the huge arena. Høstfest is to Minot, what the World Dairy Expo is to Madison.

The Great Hall of the Vikings, where the headliner shows take place, holds 10,000 people. We saw the Trace Atkins show on Thursday and the Judds on Friday. There were also six free stages in the arena where you could enjoy continuous entertainment throughout the day and evening.

The Oak Ridge Boys have been performing at Høstfest for many years. Linda and I went to their concert at the Madison Coliseum many years ago when I was doing the advertising for shows that appeared there. We always had excellent seats for any shows. The Oaks still sound good after all these years. Everyone laughed when Joe Bonsall said, “We used to think this was an old crowd at Høstfest, but now we’ve caught up to you.”

Another must-see show was Williams and Ree, also known as “the Indian and the White Guy.” They kept everyone in stitches for over an hour. Bjøro Haaland, Norway’s Country Gentleman, was also a crowd favorite with his country western songs.

The arena fest grounds is huge, and divided into many areas, where you can find wood carving, rosemaling, crafts, clothes, jewelry, books, and just about every kind of Scandinavian food you can imagine–yes, even lutefisk.

If you get separated from someone, you might not see them again until you board the bus at 8:30 in the evening for the trip back to the hotel. This is one of those stories that’s just begging to be told! About half an hour after arriving at Høstfest for our second day, I ran into Janet Johnson. She wondered if I had seen Sandra (Peterson) go by. I hadn’t seen her since we got off the bus. That afternoon we ran into Janet again. She had found Sandra back in the morning, but now they had become separated again. Later, we found out they both had cell phones but had neglected to get each other’s number. Janet had finally called Sandra’s husband back in Cashton, to get her number so she could call her. After several attempts to reach Sandra, they finally connected and were re-united! As I said, it’s a huge place, with thousands of people and it’s easy to turn around and find you’ve lost someone. I wonder if Janet could have checked for Sandra at the Lost and Found booth?! If you go to Høstfest, be sure to carry a cell phone and type in the numbers of people in your traveling party. Thanks Janet and Sandra for giving me permission to share this wonderful story.

One of the great parts of Høstfest is meeting and talking with people from all over the country, Canada, and Scandinavian countries. I ran into two people from Westby… Westby, Montana, and we compared notes on our hometowns. I also ran into people, who when they found out who I was, said they read my column every week. That was nice to hear.

If you want a fun experience, put Høstfest on your calendar for next year, and bring your cell phone.

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Milk Hauling Days - Part 4 (Conclusion)

2011-10-08T20:52:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #360

Another job milk haulers had, was to report to the milk inspector any violations that you noticed on farms. Then the inspector would go to that farm and check it out. I had one farmer that let the manure pile up in the gutters and the cows were absolutely filthy. I had to report him several times. His farm was at the end of a long road in the hills up above the Kickapoo Valley. His buildings were old and in disrepair.

The toughest times for milk hauling were the winter months. I think that winter of ‘1963-’64, convinced me that I didn’t want to haul milk the rest of my life.

It didn’t matter how cold it was or how much snow there was, the milk needed to be picked up. There was a block heater attached to the truck that I plugged in each day so it would start in the mornings. It was tough crawling into that cold cab when it was still dark out and taking off when the temperature was way below zero. When I pulled the cans out of the coolers, the cold water would drip on my apron and boots, and before long it would be frozen hard as a rock, with icicles hanging from it. My heavy leather gloves would get wet and frozen and my fingers would feel numb.

Sometimes a farmer couldn’t get his pickup or tractor started, and ask if I could jump it to get it going, or sometimes we hooked a chain from the truck to the vehicle and pulled it until it started. Not only was that a cold, miserable job, lying in the snow under the truck, attaching the chain, but it also put me behind on my route. Then I had to go faster to make up lost time.

After a snowstorm it was hard to make it through the snow to some of the farms. Then I’d crawl under the truck and put the chains on the dual rear wheels before I started out in the morning; a cold, miserable job. I remember getting stuck in driveways several times and had to shovel until I could get going again. If a driveway was completely blocked and I couldn’t get to the farm, the farmer would haul the cans out to the road on a sled.

The sideroads of Vernon County are not the best places to drive, even on a good winter day. There are many hills and winding roads. I’d wind the truck up as tight as I could on the downhills to get a run at the uphills. By the time I reached the top of the hill with my heavy load, I was in my lowest gear and barely moving.

I never slid in the ditch or tipped the truck, but came close one day while returning to the creamery with a full load on Highway 27. The roads were snow-packed and slippery. As I rounded one of the many curves, the back end of the truck took off on me and I found myself sliding sideways down the center of the road. Luckily, no cars were coming and I managed to bring the back end around, over corrected, and started going the other way. I finally brought it to a stop sitting along the edge of a ditch that would certainly have rolled the truck. I was lucky. All the doors stayed shut through the ordeal and not a drop of milk was spilled.

I wasn’t that lucky one day, when in my hurry, I neglected to secure the latch on one of the doors. It worked loose, and as I rounded a curve on a county road, I saw the door fly open, in my rearview mirror, and watched as cans started rolling out of the truck and bouncing into the ditch. By the time I brought the truck to a halt, I’d lost over a dozen cans. The covers came off some of them and there was a nice trail of spilled milk along the road and ditch.

As I mentioned earlier, that cold winter convinced me to seek school and other employment. I continued hauling milk through the next summer. At the end of summer, I retired from milk hauling and returned to Madison, where I entered the commercial art program at MATC.

I was a milk hauler for fourteen months and never missed a day, hauling seven days a week. It was quite an experience, but convinced me there must be an easier way to make a living. And all that double clutching and shifting that I thought was so great when I started, that got old real fast!

I must admit, I really got in shape lifting all those cans every day. By the time I quit, I could take a full can in each hand and, doing a curl like a weightlifter, set them up in the truck. It helped to be young too.

Now those days are gone and milk is picked up in bulk tank trucks and the hauler doesn’t have to lift all those heavy cans anymore. But, milk haulers today still have to deal with all the other problems and adventures we went through back in the days of hauling canned milk.

All in all, my time hauling milk was certainly an adventure, and quite a learning experience.

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Milk Hauling Days - Part 3 (Long Days)

2011-10-02T16:35:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #359

Last week, I mentioned that I always let a woman go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of her pickup.

A couple years later, when I was home on leave before heading for Vietnam, I ran into Neil Nelson in Westby. He wanted to buy me a coke at the drug store and thanked me for always helping unload their milk when I had been a milk hauler. He told me to wait at the counter, and he went next door to the bank. He came back and gave me two silver dollars. Neil said, “Now that you owe me money, you have to come back safely.” He wanted me to carry them as good luck and when I returned, I had to give one back to him and I could keep the other. I returned that dollar to him a year later, and I’ve carried the other coin every day since he gave it to me.

But I digress, back to the milk hauling. After I arrived at the creamery, I waited for my turn and then opened the large doors on the right side of the truck, and pulled in around a corner post and positioned my truck as close to the track as possible. As time went on, I could line it up with an inch to spare instead of a foot, as I had done when I first started. That made it much easier to unload. I then climbed up into the back of the truck and started unloading.

The cans belonging to one farm all had to stay in a group. I used a special wrench to knock the can covers loose and then placed one can at a time on a track of rollers that carried them into the creamery, where the milk was weighed for each farmer and dumped into a large vat.

After the load was emptied, I drove ahead and the empty cans, washed and sanitized, came through a small door on more rollers. I put them back in the truck, making sure all the cans for one farm stayed in a group and in the position I wanted them in the truck, depending on where I would load the cans from that farm. If the milk house was on the right side of the truck, I put them on that side of the truck. All this was pretty much learned on the fly, with one quick lesson, when I rode along that first day.

As soon as the empty cans were loaded, I headed out for the second load and in many cases, back to some of the same farms to pick up the morning milking for those who had too many cans to fit in the cooler. This was a problem in the summer when milk could sour very fast. The second load was the same routine as the first. I had a couple of farmers who were always late. Even when I left them until the end of my route, they were still milking when I arrived at 11:00. Sometimes, if they still had several cows to milk, I just took what they had ready. The rest could sit in the cooler until the next day.

Most dogs were very friendly and liked to have me pay attention to them when I arrived. But one dog always had to be watched. As I got out of the truck, he’d come running with his lips laid back, his teeth barred, and growling. I’d yell and he’d usually stop, and just growl, but I never trusted turning my back on him. When the farmer was around, he’d chase him off. One day he told me I should smack the dog if he got too close. A couple days later I was ready for him. I had placed a can cover in the seat next to me. When I got out of the truck he came charging as usual. This time I didn’t yell, and when he got close enough, I nailed him in the head with the can cover and sent him sprawling and yelping. He never bothered me after that.

When I was done with my route, I filled up the tank with gas and headed home to our farm, parked the truck, and helped my dad with farm work the rest of the day. It got old real fast. The days were long, and the milk route alone, would have been enough physical labor for one day, but then I had to spend the rest of the day helping farm, and of course, chores and milking in the evenings. I lived for the weekends when I could go cruisin’, let loose, and raise some H with my friends.

However it was pure H to get up on Sunday morning and climb back into that truck with only a couple hours sleep. Cows don’t stop producing milk on the weekends, so hauling milk was a seven days a week job. Neither rain, sleet, snowstorm, sub-zero temperatures, sickness, don’t feel like working today, or hangover, could keep the milk hauler from his appointed rounds. I managed to survive those wild weekends of my youth, and got all the milk picked up. I never missed a day hauling milk in those 14 months.

(Concluded next week)

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Milk Hauling Days - Part 2

2011-09-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #358

I’ll try to describe a typical day in the life of this milk hauler. Up at 4:00 am, grab a sandwich that my mother had made the night before, and out to the truck, parked at the farm. I headed out in the dark toward Cashton, north of Westby, to my first farm. At each stop I’d maneuver the truck as close to the milk house as possible. Some places were set up so you could drive right alongside the milk house. At others, you had to back down a winding path or around buildings to reach the milk house, using only your sideview mirrors.

The first order of business was to unload the empty cans for the next day’s milking. Each farmer had cans with numbers painted on in red or black, so the hauler and the creamery knew who the milk belonged to. I always carried extra cans without numbers in case a farmer needed them and then used a red marker to write their number on the cans.

All milk haulers wore a large leather apron like blacksmiths use. This was used because you were always pulling cold, wet cans out of the milk coolers in the milk houses and carrying them to the truck. Without the apron you’d have been soaking wet. I pulled the full cans from the cooler and carried them outside where I loaded them on the truck. At first I’d carry one can at a time and with a swinging motion, hoist it up into the truck. After all, they weighed a hundred pounds when full. Eventually I could carry two cans at a time, because it saved a lot of steps and time. Depending on the size of the dairy herd, a farm could have as little as two cans or as many as twenty. The truck had doors on the back and sides to make loading easier. After the cans were loaded, I secured the door latch on the truck and headed off to the next farm.

As I became more familiar with driving the truck, I’d roar along the back roads as fast as I could go in order to save time. At the creamery I usually had to wait in line for at least one other hauler to unload, and also for farmers who hauled their own milk in pickups. That meant spending a half hour in line and another twenty minutes unloading and loading. If Magnus Sather beat me to the creamery, it meant waiting even longer. He also had two loads a day.

Magnus was a friend of our family. His daughter and I graduated from high school together. Magnus was built like a bull, strong and muscular from hauling milk for over twenty years. He had bad knees, arthritis in his hands, back problems, and aches and pains from all those years of lifting heavy cans. He told me many times, “Howard, go back to school, you don’t want to be doing this for twenty years. It’s too hard. You’ll end up like me.” I was still having fun, but I hadn’t gone through a cold Wisconsin winter hauling milk at that point.

Magnus and I helped each other unload, because it went faster and we’d be back on the road for our second load, and finish sooner. But there was a friendly rivalry to see who could get to the creamery first.

One day Magnus and I arrived at a crossroad on Highway 27 at the same time, about a mile north of town. I pulled onto the highway first and Magnus pulled in right behind me. I barreled down the highway toward town with him on my bumper. At that time there were two stop signs at the north edge of Westby where 14 and 27 split. One went straight ahead to go south into Westby, the other veered to the right to go toward Coon Valley. As we came to the intersection, I pulled to a stop and leaned forward to look out my right window, and see if any cars were coming. No cars were coming, but there was Magnus, barreling by and waving to me. He had taken the right exit and must have run the stop sign, in order to get ahead of me. I roared after him, both of us double clutching our way down Main Street. We might have exceeded the speed limit just a bit. We pulled into the creamery in the south part of town and screeched to a halt.

Magnus got out of his truck grinning ear to ear. “Thought you were going to beat me, didn’t you?” He let out a big laugh and I had to laugh too.

Another milk hauler, Cal Anderson, pulled in behind us and got out. “Where’s the fire? I saw you guys racing into town as I was coming down 14.” He knew why we’d been in a hurry. Cal was probably trying to get there ahead of us so he wouldn’t have to wait an extra hour!

I felt sorry for some of the farmers who hauled their own cans when they got behind a line of our trucks. One woman arrived about the time I did. I always let her go ahead of me and helped her unload the four or five cans she had in the back of their pickup.

(Continued next week)

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Milk Hauling Days - Part 1

2011-09-17T20:10:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence 357

I ran into two people recently that brought back memories of my milk hauling days. Many of you are familiar with the days of farming when milk was hauled in cans. I’d like to take you back to those days of yesteryear when I hauled milk to the Westby Cooperative Creamery for 14 months.

During the summer of 1963, I was working on the family farm. One day, while I was doing chores, our milk hauler, Vernal Bjornstad, arrived. I helped lift the cans out of the cooler and carried them from the milk house while he lifted them into the truck. That was back in the days when you still put milk in ten-gallon cans, not bulk tanks. A full can weighed 100 pounds.

Vernal said he could use help with his milk route. He had two trucks and wondered if I’d be interested in hauling milk for him. He’d pay me $125 dollars a month. That seemed like a lot of money, especially when I wasn’t making any money working at home. “Talk it over with your dad,” he said, “and let me know tomorrow.” The hours would be from four or five in the morning until around one in the afternoon. I could still help on the farm in the afternoon and evening.

Dad was reluctant to have me haul milk. “You don’t know how to drive a big truck like that, it’s different from driving a pickup.” He finally relented.

The next morning I told Vernal I’d take the job. He said he’d pick me up at 4:30 the next morning and I’d ride with on the route I’d be taking over. Depending on the time of year there would be from 175 to 250 cans, and it would take two loads per day.

The next morning I was ready to roll. It was my first “real” job. Before then, I’d only worked on the farm or helped neighbors with farm work for short periods of time.

My route was mostly in the area north of Westby along Highway 27, the Clockmaker area, Jersey Valley, Rognstad Ridge, Highway 33 near Cashton, and several farms south of Westby, including our farm. It was a lot of miles to cover every day and still get the second load to the Westby Creamery and unloaded before 1:00.

Vernal drove while I made notes on what farms were on the route, and other things I needed to know, such as how many pounds of butter each received, and which dogs to watch out for. After the truck was full we headed for the creamery to unload. Vernal said I should try to beat Magnus Sather to the creamery, or I’d lose half an hour waiting behind him while he unloaded. Magnus also had a big route and it usually took about twenty minutes to half an hour to unload the full cans and load empty cans back on the truck.

After we’d completed the second load, Vernal parked the truck, and said, “It’s all yours!” He told me to take it to the gas station on the south edge of town and fill it up each day when I finished my route. He had an account there. Then he got in another truck and drove away.

There I stood. I still hadn’t driven the truck. I’d only been a passenger and watched while he explained how to shift from high to low gear by pressing the little red button on the side of the shift knob, while double clutching. He said I’d learn quickly which gear to use, depending on how heavy the load was.

I climbed up into the cab of that truck and started it up. I tried shifting it into gear. I had problems at first, but eventually made it out of the creamery driveway and onto Highway 14, sweating profusely!

I felt pretty cool bouncing along on my way to the gas station. Look at me; I’m a double-clutching truck driver, a real macho-man. I tried not to grind the gears too much as I headed down the highway. It was fun running through all those gears and constantly shifting. Little did I know that a year later it’d be a big pain in the butt shifting all the time.

That was the start of my truck driving, milk hauling career. Thank goodness it was in the summer when the weather was nice and the roads were good.

The next morning I was up and on the road before 4:30. It took longer that first day because everything was new, and I was still learning how to drive and shift the truck. I also found it tricky backing into tight places near milk houses using only the side-view mirrors and trying to judge the distance
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Somehow I survived that first day, with no accidents or spilled milk. I didn’t hit any milk houses, run over anyone, and even managed to maneuver the truck into the unloading dock without damaging the creamery.

By that evening every muscle in my body was sore. I was 19 and thought I was in great shape from doing farm work, but slinging 250 milk cans around and lifting them up into the bed of the truck was hard work. What had I gotten myself into?

Next week: A day in the life of a milk hauler.

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Let's Park for a While

2011-09-10T14:34:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #356

At least I know a few people read Across the Fence. I hear my cruisin’ with WLS in the 60’s story sparked some memories in many of you.

I walked into Borgen’s Café in Westby one day and ran into two of my high school classmates. One of them remarked, “I didn’t know you were a dancer?” I was a bit puzzled, until she said she read my story about going to Lloyd’s and Danceland. I doubt if anyone in my high school class ever saw me dance. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly in high school. I was more like a moth stuck inside a cocoon and couldn’t find my way out.

By the way, I was 19 years old, had been out of high school for over a year, and was hauling milk, when I was frequenting Lloyd’s and Danceland. Let’s just say, those were my coming out of my cocoon years.

One day we stopped in Ole and Lena’s Kaffe Hus in Westby. Mike, the owner, said, “I was hoping you’d come in this week.” Then he burst into song. “On top of a pizza all covered with cheese…” At that point I joined in… “I saw my first meatball, til’ somebody sneezed. It rolled off the table and onto the floor…” You’d have thought Mike and I were cruisin’ down the highway in a ’57 Chev, and singing along with Dick Biondi on WLS! Other people in Ole and Lena’s must have wondered what was wrong with the two of us.

Mike was surprised to find out we had been listening to WLS in Westby. Mike is a Chicago-area native and even got to attend a Rockin’ New Year’s Eve with Dick Biondi at the Chicago Theatre one year. We had a good time reminiscing about our cruisin’ and listenin’ to WLS years. It’s a small world. Kids in Westby and kids in Chicago were tuned into the same radio station and doing the same things.

What we all did was similar to the movie, American Graffiti, where they cruised around listening to Wolfman Jack. Readers reminded me that guys and gals also parked their cars for a while in that movie. That was another activity that went on in that era… parking. You do remember parking, don’t you? Some people wondered if young people still park. We suspect it’s not a common activity these days. In all our travels around back roads in the country, day or night, I’ve never come across a situation that even resembles parking.

Perhaps I need to do a little explaining here for the younger crowd, and for those in my age group or older, who’ve been living in isolation in the back woods. Now I’m not saying I have any experience with parking, but any writer worth his weight in printer’s ink, researches his subject before putting words to paper. I’ve tried asking people about the subject, but it’s almost impossible to find anyone who will admit they used to park. As I’ve already mentioned, I’m not saying I have any experience on this subject either, but I’ve heard a lot about parking.

For the younger crowd, I’m not talking about driving to the local mall, parking your car, and going shopping. Back in the cruisin’ days, so I’ve been told, guys and gals would go cruisin’ around some lonely back roads at night and find a secluded place to park the car so they could spend some time alone… and sit and talk.

Back in those days, most cars didn’t have bucket seats and shifting knobs between the seats. It was just one seat and the shifting lever was on the steering column. That made it easier for a girl, way over on the passenger side, to slide over closer to the guy in case she couldn’t hear what he was saying. I should also mention that we didn’t have seat belts in those days, to keep us in our proper place. Sitting closer did make for some stimulating conversation, so I’ve been told.

Another interesting activity associated with parking, was bushwhacking. Again, I’m not saying I ever engaged in such activities, but I have it on good authority that such things took place. Bushwhacking was an activity carried out by a group of guys who didn’t have any girls to park and talk with. They would go looking for people who were parking. It was best to have the use of an old pickup truck, so one guy could drive, and the rest could ride in the back. Then we headed for the prime parking spots that we knew of. Did I say we? I meant to say, “they” headed for the prime parking spots. When they spotted a car parked in the shadows, they sprang into action. If it was in a field, they’d circle the car and guys would whoop and yell while pounding on the sides of the pickup. The occupants looked like a couple of deer caught in the headlights.

Then we roared off down the road as quickly as we’d arrived. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, just give them a little excitement, and a break from their heavy conversation.

Cruisin’, parking, and bushwhacking… activities that are a part of me and my generation. Just don’t blame me if this sparks a revival of those activities.

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Days of Summer Are Fading

2011-09-03T17:31:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #355

As the days become shorter and cooler, I can feel the beginning of fall in the air. Summer is heading south for the winter and leaving us behind.

Colorful wildflowers are disappearing and the wind rushing through the cornfields near our house sounds like waves rolling onto a beach. Summer is winding down and students have headed back to school. That can be an exciting or very apprehensive time in the life of every student, regardless of their age.

It’s also a tough time for parents as their child begins the first day of kindergarten, first grade, high school, or college. I know that emptiness and sadness you’re feeling. Been there, done that. On the other hand, maybe some of you are whooping it up and dancing in the streets. Summer vacation’s over and the kids are back in school! It makes me wonder how my parents felt when we headed off to school each fall.

Back to school for us farm kids was a mixed blessing. It was also tobacco harvesting time. We never got out of helping with tobacco when we were young. There was always lots of tobacco to pile as soon as we got home from school. I think Dad timed the cutting of the tobacco so it would be wilted and ready to pile when we arrived. In a way, we hated to miss the excitement of the harvest. Dad always put an ad in the paper, advertising for experienced tobacco harvest help. He got more than enough people who were willing to work for a dollar an hour, plus meals. That was the going wage at that time for a long day of physical labor.

When we were very young, we got the job of suckering and piling. I hated both jobs, but we didn’t have a choice. Those unglamorous jobs were reserved for us kids, as if any job in tobacco could be called glamorous. Things got better when we graduated to helping cut tobacco down and spear it onto laths. Those seemed like more grown-up jobs. When we got to help haul and hang tobacco in the shed, we knew we’d been promoted to the major leagues. That was “manly” work.

I think the best part of harvesting was when Ma brought coffee out to the field mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Then everyone stopped what they were doing and gathered around the tobacco rack for not just coffee, but sandwiches, cookies, and assorted other goodies. We ate more for coffee than I eat at a regular meal now. We all drank water out of a large mason jar. Many of the men chewed tobacco and I can still see that tobacco juice swirling around in the water. It didn’t look the most appetizing, but we never considered not drinking it.

When we had our noon meal in the house, everyone washed up outside. We had a pail of water and wash basins on an old table behind the shanty. Most people didn’t worry about getting all the dirt off, just enough to look presentable at the kitchen table. Anyone who’s worked in tobacco knows how hard it is to get caked-on tobacco juice and dirt off. We used Lava soap. It seemed to be the only thing that would take most of it off, other than dousing your hands with gasoline, but then you had that gas smell that lingered forever.

Stained hands and smelling like I’d taken a bath in gasoline, or had just come from cleaning the barn, were part of our life. The barn smell was a natural smell to us and I never gave it a second thought until I got to high school. Going from a one-room school to high school was a big transition for me.

At Smith School we were like one big family with around 20 kids in all eight grades. We were all farm kids and everyone helped with chores at home. Most of us didn’t have indoor plumbing and I suspect most of the kids were like us, and only had a bath in a portable tub once a week. Many of you grew up on farms and you know how the many barn smells seem to permeate your clothes and hair. It was no big deal. I never even thought that I smelled like a barn. That was life as we knew it. Maybe we subconsciously carried that barn smell like a badge of honor. It let people know that we knew how to work. We certainly didn’t smell like fancy, store-bought cologne. I don’t think we ever used cologne or deodorant when we were young. I’m not saying we didn’t need some; we just didn’t use any.

But then I headed off to high school in Westby. We still used an outhouse, and didn’t have indoor plumbing, although Ma had a hand pump at the kitchen sink to draw water from. I became much more self-conscious of how I smelled when sitting in class with “city girls.” By the time I started my sophomore year we had a bathroom and indoor plumbing. It didn’t seem to enhance my status with the girls, so maybe it wasn’t just smelling like I’d been born in a barn that was hindering my social standing!

Life is full of changes, obstacles, insecurities, and possibilities. Summer transitioning to fall is one of them. Don’t fight it. Enjoy it!

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Road Destruction-Construction Update

2011-08-27T21:23:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #354

It’s been four months since I wrote a eulogy to the destruction of Sherpe Road and the farmland along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua. That column generated more comments than any story I’ve ever written. I had e-mails, phone calls, and I’m stilling getting people commenting about it when I meet someone on the street. I’d say that 99% of those people think the four-lane highway is a waste of money, especially during this time when we hear that the state is practically broke.

Education budgets are stripped to the bare bones and yet we throw money into projects like this road that local residents say isn’t needed. Except for two people who were in favor of the road, over two hundred people told me it was a total waste of money and destruction of land. One woman told me that during one of the listening sessions, where no one was listening, she asked if anyone had considered all the lost tax base from destroyed farms. The state officials admitted they hadn’t considered that problem.

I have to tell you what Trygve Thompson, a long time friend and neighbor, told me. I have his permission to relate his story.

I was born on the farm that was located just north of the Thompson farm. Our farm was located behind what is now Frontier Ag and Turf, the John Deere dealer along Highway 14. I grew up with Trygve and Joel Thompson and we often walked across the fields, and crossed the fences between our farms, to play with each other.

When the new highway was constructed back in the 1950’s, they put a tunnel under Highway 14, so Thompson’s cows could safely cross to the other side of the highway. They have around 180 acres on the west side of the road and all the buildings and 50 more acres on the east side of the road. It was fun for us kids to use the tunnel under the highway and it was a great place to play, catch frogs, and have frog races.

The new highway will eliminate that tunnel. Granted, Trygve no longer milks cows so they don’t need it for the cows to reach the other side. The problem is that the state will not put an access road across the four lanes, so farm machinery can cross to the other side. Now he’ll have to travel north from his driveway, on the two lanes to Frontier, where he can cross the road to his fields. To get back to his farm buildings, he’ll have to enter at the Frontier access and travel down the other two lanes, heading south, until he reaches the Rogers farm where he can cross the road and head back north to reach his driveway. That will be some dangerous travel with large, slow machinery.

Like everything else about this road construction, no one cares about things like this unless you’re the one affected by it. Time will tell how that access problem works out, but don’t blame Trygve if you get behind slow-moving machinery trying to do farm work. Point a finger toward the powers-to-be in Madison, who don’t seem to care about the rural disruptions and problems they create.

Many people, including readers in Iowa and Minnesota, have asked me how the road is coming along. The new lanes on the west side are almost completed. Then traffic will begin traveling on the new road and they’ll tear up the existing two lanes and redo them. Several people have commented about how empty the landscape looks now. I don’t think there’s a bush or tree left along the new highway, and the bike path that runs alongside the road will certainly be exposed.

Speaking of exposed, I’ve been suggesting that we invite the naked bike racers from Madison to come north to God’s Country and initiate the new trail when it opens. I understand they had 40-50 bikers show up for this year’s race/tour in Madison. I can guarantee that you’ll have a great view of the entire race from Westby to Viroqua, because there isn’t a bush or tree to obstruct your view. Maybe even some locals would like to join them, although I will respectfully decline any invitation. It’s tough enough biking with padded bike shorts, let alone, au naturel.

Now before you start getting together a party to tar and feather me, and run me out of town, we’ve got to have a little tongue-in-cheek humor to go along with this new highway and multi-use trail!

As I’ve said so many times in this column, times change and we can’t go back. According to the vast majority of people around here, this un-needed, wasteful spending, destructive, four-lane highway, is another of those changes we could have done without. But it’s here now and we’ll have to learn to live with it. I doubt if I’ll ever see Sherpe Road lined with large trees and brush, and full of wildlife again, in my lifetime. But I hope future generations will find it as beautiful as it was, before it was all destroyed this summer.

One last comment, if you get behind some slow-moving farm machinery near the John Deere dealer, don’t blame the farmers, they’re just trying to do their job.

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Cruisin' With WLS In the 60's

2011-08-20T19:15:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #353

Let’s take a trip back to the early 60’s… The 1960’s! Slip behind the wheel of your ’57 Chevy, crank the windows down, tune the radio to 890-AM on the dial, turn up the volume, shift into gear, pop the clutch, and we’re off for a night of cruisin’ and listenin’ fun.

It’s Saturday night, the chores are done, the cows have been milked, you took a spit bath to get some of the barn smell off, put on a clean shirt, pants, and shoes, and now it’s time to howl. In my case, that meant heading to Westby and stopping at the pool hall to see who was around. That was our meeting place on Saturday nights. After a couple games of pool, we headed out to see what kind of excitement or trouble we could find. That usually meant heading north to Lloyds’ in Cashton, also referred to by my folks as “the Snake Pit.” It was an 18-year-old beer bar. You could drink beer at 18 in Wisconsin in the 1960’s.

There actually was a lowered area at Lloyds’ where you could dance. I guess you could call that the snake pit. Saturday nights also had live, local bands playing the latest hits. I’ve always wondered why we call it “a live band,” as if a “dead band” would be playing. Although there was The Grateful Dead band, but they never made it to Lloyds’. I guess we could say it was live music as opposed to jukebox music.

I was returning home from Viroqua recently after televising baseball games. It was a beautiful summer night. The sky was filled with stars, and oldies music was playing on the car radio. It transported me back to those early 1960s nights. I didn’t have a car back then. I had to “borrow” the folk’s car if I wanted to go out, meaning any place off the farm. We usually had Chevy’s, except for a Pontiac Bonneville in the early 60’s.

AM radio was the standard in those days. I don’t remember if I knew what FM radio was. Whenever I went out at night, the radio was tuned to 890-AM, WLS in Chicago. That’s where you could listen to the Top 40 hits of the day. My favorite DJ was Dick Biondi, “The Wild Italian.” Another was Larry Lujack.

I spent many Saturday nights, cruisin’ the countryside and listenin’ to Dick Biondi. Does anyone remember him singing “On Top of a Pizza,” to the tune of On Top of Old Smokey? I used to know every word and we’d belt out the song, along with Biondi, as we cruised down the highway with the moonlight casting intriguing shadows on the countryside. There was a special magic to those times that still evokes good memories. “There’s A Moon Out Tonight” by the Capris, blasting on the radio, added to the magic of the moment. Who remembers “Dedicated To the One I Love,” and “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?” by the Shirelles. There’s also that song that eventually drove us crazy, “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?” There was “Crying” by Roy Orbison, and “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Ray Charles. We would also sing along with Dion as he sang “The Wanderer,” as we wandered around the back roads of Vernon County.

When I told Linda what I was writing about this week, she recalled how they would “cruise the gut” in Platteville. Main Street was a one-way street and cars would slowly cruise down the street side by side, with all the windows rolled down, as they talked back and forth until they reached the end of the street. Then they drove around and back to the top of Main and did it all over again. I suspect carloads of girls were talking to boys cruising in the other cars. We couldn’t cruise the streets of Westby side by side or we’d have been stopped and ticketed for driving on the wrong side of the highway. We just cruised over to Cashton to see what girls might be looking for a dancing partner at Lloyd’s or at Danceland between Cashton and Ontario.

I won’t go into details of our exploits or who my cruising buddies were on those Saturday night adventures, both to protect myself and my guilty friends! I’ll just say that it made it a bit awkward if one of us connected with a girl we’d like to take home, when there were three or four other guys riding in the same car. I guess we all could have driven separately, but who wants to cruise around alone?

Sometimes our night ended up like the song by The Angels, “My Boyfriend’s Back, and you’re gonna’ be in trouble!” If you asked the wrong girl to dance, a boyfriend might suddenly show up, and as the lyrics go, “So look out now cause he’s comin’ after you. Hey-la-day-la, my boyfriend’s back.” Then it was time to “Turn Me Loose” and “Hit the Road Jack.” You could always wave and say, “Save the Last Dance for Me,” as you became a “Travelin’ Man,” and cruised back to Westby with WLS radio blasting and Elvis asking, “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Sam Cooke would chime in with, “Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody!” But we kept on hoping and searching for that “One Fine Day,” the Chiffons sang about.

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Life Is Full of Surprises

2011-08-14T15:43:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #352

You never know when someone from your past will suddenly enter your life again.

This past week, the National American Legion - Central Plains Region Baseball Tournament was held for four days in Viroqua, Wisconsin. Part of my responsibilities at Vernon Communications is supervising our community channels. We did live telecasts of all 14 games. That included a couple of 16-hour days when it was hot and humid. It seems like we’ve had that same kind of weather for many weeks now.

Our television control booth was located upstairs in the press box at the ball field. The tin roof added to the accumulated heat. To say we were perspiring is a bit of an understatement. I was sweating. Perhaps this is more information than you need, but one day I went through a large coffee in the morning to start the day. I have Norwegian blood, you know, and it’s never too hot for coffee. I also downed two bottles of water, two large Gatorades, and a large bottle of iced tea, and never had to go to the bathroom during the day. That shows how important it is to keep drinking fluids on a hot day to stay hydrated.

The televised games were also streamed over the Internet on Ustream, where people all over the country could watch the games. We even had an e-mail from someone watching in Hawaii. People in Pahrump, Nevada, were watching the games on a large screen at a local store. They were thrilled to be able to watch their sons, grandsons, and friends play in a national tournament. For three days, food arrived at noon for everyone in the press box, compliments of the fans in Nevada who were able to watch the games. It made all the work and long hours seem worth the effort when we heard from appreciative people all over the country.

But the highlight of the games occurred for me on the first day. After the introduction of players before each game, a veteran was introduced and read the Athlete’s Code of Sportsmanship. These are all American Legion sponsored teams. I had been asked to read the code at the third game of the tournament, between Richland Center, Wisconsin and Eden Valley-Watkins, Minnesota. In the introduction, Pete Swanson, the tournament director, announced who you were, when you were in service, where you served, and what unit you served in.

When 4th Infantry and Vietnam were mentioned, I heard someone in the stands, shout, “4th Infantry!” As I came off the field, a man was there to meet me. He smiled at me and said, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him, but had no clue, and had to admit it. “Herb Willner,” he said. “Holy s…” were the first words out of my mouth. It had been 44 years since we had seen each other and that was in Vietnam.

Herb was drafted out of Minnesota the same time that I was drafted. We were sworn in together in Minneapolis, went through the reception station at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri together, and were in the same basic training company in Fort Lewis, Washington. We then went to Vietnam together with the 4th Infantry Division. And now, 44 years later, we met up again in the most unlikely place. If I hadn’t read the code at the game that Eden Valley-Watkins was playing in, we’d never have connected. Herb’s grandson was a pitcher on the team, and Herb’s whole family was at the tournament.

Needless to say, neither of us looks like the lean, mean, fighting machine we were 44 years ago. When we went to Vietnam we both weighed around 175 pounds. I was 135 pounds when I came home a year later. Herb also came home a lot lighter. We both weigh a “bit” more these days! Is it any wonder that he didn’t recognize me either, until my name and unit were announced?

During the four-day tournament, we were able to reconnect as we visited between games. I’ve said it before, the phrase “Band of Brothers,” is so true when describing those of us who shared the experience of war. There’s a special bond that can’t be broken. It’s a shame that most of us never kept in contact after we came home. I guess we just wanted to put the whole experience behind us and try to forget about it.

Now after all these years, as several of us have reconnected, we find that a strong bond of friendship is still there. I called Larry Skolos, who lives near Viroqua, and he came to the ballpark to reconnect with Herb too. We’re just “three old vets” who, once upon a time, spent two “interesting years” together, sharing a common experience.

I have to admit that I was pulling for Eden Valley-Watkins, the Minnesota state champion, to win, after they beat Viroqua, our local host team, in a 3-2 thriller. Herb’s grandson won the game he pitched, and their team went undefeated in the tournament, defeating the Nevada state champion in the national championship game.

Life is full of surprises. 46 years ago we entered each other’s lives, and now 44 years after last seeing each other, we’ve reconnected. Now we’re even Facebook friends. Life never ceases to amaze me.

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What A Tangled Web We Grow

2011-08-06T19:44:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #351

I come from a long line of farmers. My father, grandfathers, great grandfathers, and many generations that reach back to the Viking age in Norway were farmers. From my genealogy research, it appears the vast majority of my ancestors farmed the land. That’s a lot of DNA dirt under my fingernails. Is it any wonder that I feel an irresistible urge to dig in the dirt and try to make things grow?

Times have changed and today there are fewer farmers. I’ve become one of the many offspring who no longer follow the farming tradition that we grew up in. Fortunately, my brother, Arden, has continued the tradition and has the home farm. Chances are, he could be the last Sherpe, in a long, unbroken line, who knows what it’s like to plant and harvest a crop, and milk a cow.

I can’t call myself a farmer, but I’m still planting and harvesting. I have a garden. It helps keep some dirt under my fingernails. It’s not a big garden. Actually, it’s quite small as gardens go, but I still call it a garden. My mother had a huge garden when I was young. The rows were long and straight. She had a wide variety of vegetables and very few weeds in her garden. We got to help her plant and keep the weeds out.

She must be looking at my garden from the Spirit World and shaking her head in pity. My garden isn’t exactly a thing of beauty. Truth be told, it’s down right ugly. On the bright side, it’s such a tangled web of interwoven vines that even the animals and birds can’t find anything to pilfer.

The problem is that it’s a very small garden with way too much stuff, planted too close together. Ma’s garden was so large that Dad used our John Deere B tractor and pulled a disk and drag to prepare the soil for planting. My garden’s not that big.

I like to call myself frugal, but Linda claims I’m cheap. I know I should have rented a rototiller for half a day, but decided I could prepare the ground with a shovel and rake. I also told myself that I could use the exercise. It was a lot of digging and the size of garden I had in my mind, kept getting smaller the longer I dug. I eventually ran out of gas and decided I’d just plant shorter rows and put them closer together. In the end, I should have rented that rototiller, but I was too cheap. Ok, there I said it! I’m cheap.

After beating and raking the big lumps of dirt into little lumps, I planted sugar snap peas, green beans, cucumbers, radishes, onions, tomatoes, beets, and this year decided to try raising some pumpkins too. Not a good idea in a small garden. Those of you who know about gardens probably took note that many of the things I planted have vines that spread out.

My garden has turned into a battlefield as all the clinging, spreading, climbing vines attack each other. It’s become a tangled, green web that would be the envy of any spider. On the positive side again, it’s even strangled the life out of most of the weeds. Although, some very hardy thistles have managed to survive and come back every year, no matter how hard I try beating them into submission.

Despite the pitiful appearance of the garden, it’s actually producing. The problem is to untangle all the clinging vines and leaves in order to find the peas, beans, and cucumbers. When I planted the seeds, I wondered if pumpkins would grow in that area. I can now report that they’re thriving and spreading. If I get a pumpkin for every blossom, I’ll need to set up a stand down by the highway and sell pumpkins this fall. I’ll keep you posted on how they develop.

I didn’t plant any sunflowers this year, but there in the center of all the tangled mess, rising toward the sky, is a sunflower, produced from a fallen seed. It’s always surprising to see what springs forth from those tiny seeds. There’s also a sunflower growing next to the cornfield near our driveway. Probably a seed carried by a bird and dropped there last fall. Now it stands tall and colorful in all its glory. Many seeds we plant in our gardens never germinate under the best of conditions, and yet these wayward seeds took root on their own and produced sunflowers. I’m continually amazed by the life cycle of plants.

I guess that’s what brings out the farmer in all of us who attempt growing gardens filled with plants and vegetables. It’s always fun to watch those small seeds emerge and develop… in my case, into a tangled mess. Even if it’s not a thing of beauty to look at, there’s still something special about producing your own food. Those radish sandwiches taste so much better when you know they grew from seeds you planted and were nourished by some of the dirt under your fingernails.

I can’t break the chain of tradition, practiced by my long line of ancestral farmers. My contribution is only a small plot of land, with a tangled, unsightly, web of vines and veggies, but I still call it “my garden.”

The Dark Side of Humanity

2011-07-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #350

This past week, a bomb, bullets, and a deranged mind, brought death, destruction, and shock to the people of Norway. Peaceful Norway, where gun violence is almost unheard of, where most policemen don’t carry guns, will never be the same. The people of Norway have now been touched by the violence that is so prevalent in the rest of the world.

Anders Behring Bleivik, a 32 year old, native Norwegian, has admitted that he carried out both attacks that killed, at latest count, 76 people.

Breivik described his bombing of an Oslo government building and his shooting spree at a youth camp, run by Norway's Labor Party, as “atrocious” but “necessary” in his crusade against liberal immigration policies and the spread of Islam.

This sounds all too much like one of the most famous quotes to come out of the Vietnam War. “We had to destroy the village in order to save it.” It was attributed to an officer referring to the decision to bomb and shell the village of Ben Tre in 1968, in order to rout the Viet Cong from the village. They were willing to destroy the village and sacrifice civilian casualties in order to kill the enemy.

In both cases, many lives were lost and altered due to twisted thinking and differing ideologies. Both situations involved the killing of innocent people.

The teenagers who were at the camp and survived, will never see life in the same light again. Man’s inhumanity to man has once again shown its dark side. It reminded me of something I wrote while still in Vietnam back in 1966. These same words can apply to the young people in Norway who underwent the horror of that day and the killing of their friends.

This is what I wrote:

It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam. Young, in both age and spirit, we arrived in this war-torn land, full of the ideals and bright dreams of youth. Life has been good. There have been more flowers than thorns along our path.

We have a child’s confidence that all will be well, and as the fairy tales always end, “They lived happily ever after.”

Suddenly young bodies and hearts are thrown into war. Death stalks among us, plucking at random, the life and spirit from a chosen few, leaving the rest saddened, bewildered and frightened. You see bodies torn and ripped apart, voices that only a short time ago had been filled with hope and joy, now scream in pain. Others will be silent forever.

Rain pours. Mud envelopes the land. Mud that seems to reach out and pull your feet out from under you, that captures you and pulls you in. You struggle, you fall in the mud. Bullets fly and you try to bury yourself in the mud. You crawl through the mud and filth. This mud of war seems to cover everything, your eyes, your mouth, even your mind.

Where only a few short weeks ago a young boy full of hopes and dreams stood; now a dirty, bedraggled old man crawls on his belly through the mud. His hopes have turned to fear and frustration, his dreams to nightmares, his joy to sorrow, light has turned to dark, and life will never be the same for him again.

Survival is all that matters now. Life has lost its sense and meaning. The youthful zest is gone, replaced by sobering thoughts. Life has been stripped of the many centuries of civilizing and we are thrust again into the evolution of our past, and I see man as the animal he is, simply fighting to survive. It’s when this stage is reached, that men are changed and will never see things in the same light again.

I’m no longer the same person that arrived such a short time ago. It doesn’t take long to age a boy in Vietnam!

Those words were written a long time ago, but history keeps repeating itself and the dark side of humanity keeps raising its ugly head. Wars and killings, too often fought over religious and political differences, continue to cause death, pain, and suffering, for people around the world. I keep hoping that things will change, but it seems that everything is becoming more polarized all the time. A case in point, our own political parties and their differences.

I try to look for something positive in every situation, and try to keep “Across the Fence” positive too. I’ve agonized over even running this story, but there is a positive note.

My relative, Jon Olav Andersen, is the editor of the newspapers in Toten and Gjovik, Norway. He wrote to let us know that he and his family were safe. He said, “We are safe, but all are affected.” A classmate of his 18-year-old daughter was killed and another one escaped unharmed. He said a young Norwegian girl who survived the killings on the island said, “If one man full of hate can do so much, think what an entire nation full of love can do.”

I will leave you with that positive comment from her. Our hope for the future rests with the younger generation, if they can develop an attitude like she expressed. Perhaps they can show the rest of us the road to a more peaceful world.

A Dark and Stormy Night

2011-07-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #349

It was a dark and stormy night. I’ve always wanted to start a story with that line. Even Snoopy used it in the Peanuts comic strip when he was writing stories, sitting on top of his doghouse.

I’ve talked about darkness before, but it’s usually been associated with a story about looking at the stars at night. Unless you’ve looked at a night sky in the country, you’ve never really experienced the majesty and beauty of the universe. It’s a sight I’ll never get tired of seeing. When the stars and moon are shining, it may be dark, but I never feel like the darkness is oppressive or gloomy. It’s just the opposite; it’s uplifting.

Darkness is defined by Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary as “The absence of light; blackness; obscurity; gloom.”

I’ve experienced darkness in the country too, when clouds obscure the moon and stars. One summer night I decided to go for a walk on our road. It was really dark; like walking in a tunnel with no light at the end. Our road is straight, but as I walked slowly, I couldn’t tell where the road was and the ditches began. It was a very strange experience. It was definitely a dark night, but it wasn’t stormy.

The only lights in the country are from neighboring farms. Even most of those lights were either out or not visible from where I walked that night. I became so disoriented in the dark, I had to feel with my foot to see if I was about to step into the ditch. I could no longer tell which direction I was heading. I finally had to give up trying to walk and turned back toward our house where I could see lights in the windows.

I heard a quote that went something like this: “There’s not enough darkness in the world to put out the light of even one small candle.” I sure could have used a candle or a small flashlight that night.

I’ve got to admit, I like the darkness found in the country at night. The fewer lights the better, because the night sky then comes alive. I’m not a big fan of those yard lights that turn on automatically when it gets dark. There’s enough light pollution without them. Most evenings we can see the glow on the southern horizon from the lights in Viroqua. But that’s nothing compared to the lights around Madison when we lived there. In order to get a good view of the stars and universe we had to drive several miles into the country. We could never walk outside as we do now; look all around us and go “Wow, look at all the stars!”

Actually, we’ve had some dark and stormy nights this summer. That’s also awe-inspiring. Nature is impressive if you take time to observe and drink it all in. Lightning lights up the sky, revealing the massive storm clouds rolling across the prairie. A couple nights it seemed like there was constant lightning as it illuminated the towering cumulonimbus clouds in the distance, that seemed to reach for the stars.

It reminded me of the days of my youth when my cousin, Sandy, and I used to sit and look at the clouds. When we saw a hole in the clouds we thought we were looking into Heaven. If the bright sun suddenly shined through that hole, we thought we had caught a glimpse of God. When lightning flashed and the sound of thunder rolled across the heavens, we thought that God was angry about something we’d done. We often got into trouble together so we probably had a few things to feel guilty about. Those images and the fears we had, were instilled in us as young kids.

In my lifetime so much of that thinking has now changed, as we’ve gained more information about the universe. Now we know that we’re inhabitants on a tiny, blue dot in a universe too large for the human mind to comprehend. It stretches far beyond those holes in the clouds we used to peer through. I’m fascinated with the photos the Hubble telescope has taken of the universe. I’ve always had a curiosity to know what’s out there and keep an open mind to all the possibilities as new worlds are discovered. I’ve also adjusted my thinking to reflect our expanding knowledge and what we now know about life and the universe. My Heaven behind the clouds thinking is long gone.

It’s been said that character, like a photograph, develops in darkness. The same is true of the world around us. It only comes into focus when we allow it to develop. Then we begin to see the picture come to life. In art school we learned how to develop photos. As I stood in the dark, peering into the tray, the photo began to take shape. I was always fascinated by the process. At first the developing images didn’t make sense. Then more pieces began filling in and eventually the picture came to life. I’m still in the developing process of my thinking. Pieces are still filling in as I discover and learn more about life and the world around us.

And it all came into focus one dark and stormy night. Thanks to Alice in Arizona, for the genesis of this story.

Tobacco Fields Are Now History

2011-07-17T17:56:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #348

If you grew up on a farm that raised tobacco, you probably had a love-hate relationship with the crop. It was a lot of physical work and labor intensive. Everything seemed to be done by hand. Much of it was back breaking work. But there was also pride involved. You knew you’d been up to the task and survived the many physical challenges. Even now, I look back on those days with nostalgia. I can’t say that I felt that way when we were slaving away in the heat and humidity in a large tobacco field with no end in sight to the work at hand.

Thoughts of tobacco came to mind the other evening as we were driving some back roads. I realized that many of the fields we passed, used to be filled with tobacco plants instead of corn and other crops. Deteriorating, unused tobacco sheds still stand on many farms. The poles are still in place but haven’t seen a tobacco-filled lath for many years. The sheds stand waiting to feel useful again, but only death and destruction are in their future.

I can’t pass a tobacco shed without thinking of the life that used to go on within its walls. Those sheds remind me of all the work that had to be done before the tobacco was hung in the shed to cure.

It seemed like there was always a job for us kids to do when tobacco was involved. You didn’t have to be very old to hold a water hose and water the tobacco beds each day. We had several long beds, covered with a white, muslin cloth. When the plants were ready to transplant in the fields, we helped pick them and then two of us sat on the planter, row after long row, planting one plant at a time, while our father pulled the planter with our John Deere B. That was about as mechanized as anything got with growing tobacco.

Rainy days didn’t offer much relief from work either. As soon as the rain stopped we picked plants, put them in a pail we could carry, and headed for the fields to replant. We walked between two rows and looked for any plants that were missing or had died. Using a pointed wooden stick, we made a hole, inserted the plant, and filled the wet soil in around it. I wonder whatever happened to those replanting sticks we used? They were probably made from old broom or fork handles that were cut to about 6” long and sharpened to a point on one end. The other end was rounded so it didn’t hurt our palm as we pushed it into the ground.

Replanting involved a lot of walking and bending over, so it was a great chore for us youngsters. As many of you know, bending over gets harder as we get older. We often went barefoot in the wet, muddy soil. I can still feel the mud oozing between my toes. It was the only time we were allowed to go barefoot.

Hoeing tobacco came next. We hated hoeing. This was also another part of growing tobacco that was usually relegated to us kids. Dad would cut or rake hay while we spent hours chopping the weeds out from between each plant. One of the fields we had was huge and the rows were very long. It seemed like we’d be old men by the time we finished hoeing that field. I know we were very young when we started hoeing tobacco because my cousin Sandy and I were chopping at weeds when she dropped a big bombshell on me one day. She said there was no Santa Clause! Talk about a double whammy. There we were, child labor, slaving away in the hot tobacco field, and I’m told that Santa doesn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever been the same since that fateful day. I don’t remember how old I was, but I couldn’t have been very old if I still believed in Santa.

If we made a child that young work these days, we’d probably be hauled off to jail for child abuse. At that time it was standard operating procedure on every farm. Kids were expected to work, not just for a couple hours, but all day long. I believe it instilled a work ethic in farm kids that has served us well in whatever line of work we followed.

One subject I don’t hear discussed when talking about tobacco, is competitiveness. Just about every aspect of tobacco could develop into a race to show that you were the fastest. Think back to cutting tobacco. You were bent over for prolonged periods of time as you quickly grabbed each plant, bent it over, and with one swift swipe of the axe, chopped it off and laid it down. If you were fast enough, you had to stop every once in a while to let the person in front of you get ahead. You never wanted to hear that chopping sound behind you getting closer.

The same was true for piling and spearing tobacco. If someone else finished a pile faster than you did, you tried to speed up. You didn’t want to be the slowest one. It’s too bad they didn’t give out cash prizes for each event. That would have made the tobacco raising process much more interesting when we were young.

Horse Liniment and Bug Repellents

2011-07-09T19:39:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #347

I recently wrote about the pesky bug problem everyone is having this summer. It sure helps to talk across the fence, because I’m now “almost” bug-free. I’ve heard from several people and finally found a solution to what was bugging me.

The first response came from Paul Seeling, publisher and editor of the papers in Woodville and Spring Valley, Wisconsin. After he received my Across the Fence column for the coming week, he suggested I import some of their wonderful Spring Valley bats, because they do a wonderful job of keeping pesky bugs away. I’m not real fond of bats and figure it would take a small army of them to control the bug infestation around us. Sorry Paul, but I think I’d rather have bugs flying around my head than bats.

The first message that provided an answer came from Marilyn Brandel, copy editor at the Fairfax Standard-Gazette in Minnesota. After receiving my column, she wrote me with a solution. “If you’re still looking for something to ward off those pesky gnats, try Absorbine Jr. At least in this part of Minnesota it seems to be working.” She also told me that supplies had sold out in most stores in the area. For me, that was a good indication that it was either working, or it was a good marketing campaign by Absorbine Jr. to sell a lot of their product. It was worth a try. I was desperate.

After the bug problem story was printed, I heard from several people, and they all had the same solution, Absorbine Jr. By that time, I knew it worked, because I had purchased a bottle after getting Marilyn’s advice. As I mentioned earlier, this sharing of stories and ideas across the fence helps find solutions to problems.

I’d heard of it, but wasn’t very familiar with the product. I thought it was a liniment used on horses. When I looked it up on the Internet, I found out it was developed back in 1892 and called Absorbine Veterinary Liniment. It was used for treating lame and overworked horses. Sometimes I feel a bit stiff, lame, and overworked, so maybe we were heading down the right path, even though I’m not a horse.

It said that farmers soon realized it also relieved their own muscle pains. Probably while rubbing it on their horses, it also provided relief for their aching, arthritic hands. If it worked on their hands they probably rubbed it on other aching joints, and found the aches and pains were helped. Maybe all that liniment rubbed on their horses and their own bodies, kept the bugs away too. It mentioned that it was used for fly control. A double relief!

After word reached the owner of the company that farmers were rubbing horse liniment on their own bodies for pain relief, the company developed Absorbine Jr. for humans. It’s a natural blend of botanical extracts that provides temporary relief of muscle aches, pains, strains, backache and arthritis. It also soothes hot, tired, itchy feet and has antiseptic qualities to help prevent infections. Over the years, Absorbine Jr. has become so popular that today it’s in more homes in the nation than any other liquid pain reliever.

It may be a pain reliever in more ways than the company thought. Those pesky bugs had become a real pain in the “you know what,” and I found relief after applying liberal amounts to an old, dirty hat. I was my usual skeptical self at first, because nothing else had worked. I decided to go out and do some yard work using a regular, non-smelly hat first, to see how bad the bugs were. They were all happy to see me, and quickly formed a cloud around my head. They were as pesky as ever. Now for the real test, I went in the garage and donned my Absorbine Jr. hat. I was ready to go out and meet the enemy, and see if it would work.

At first the little buggers surrounded me again, but they quickly left. Occasionally a bug would do a fly-by, get a whiff of my new perfume, and depart for better-smelling places. It worked! Since that time, I always apply a fresh supply on my hat before working outside. It is rather fragrant, but at least it keeps the bugs off and even masks the smell of the liquid manure that was just spread on the cut hay fields around our house.

I should mention that I haven’t noticed any mosquito bites lately either. I think it’s keeping them away too. So for everyone who’s felt like a prisoner in their home this summer because you can’t stand all the pesky flies and gnats that harass you when you go outside, get yourself a bottle of Absorbine Jr. and venture forth to meet the enemy. It worked for me and I hope it will work for you. Thanks to Marilyn, Nathan, Howard, and all the others who told me about it. You’ve made my summer and outdoor adventures much more enjoyable.

I may even try rubbing it on my arthritic hips and other joints and see if it helps those pains too. If it doesn’t help the pain, at least I know I’ll be bug-free.

Roads Less Traveled

2011-07-03T19:52:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence 346

I think most people like to travel on main roads and freeways, where they can speed along and get to their destination in a hurry. That’s fine when you need to get from point A to point B, but I prefer the less traveled roads whenever possible.

People miss so many things when they have their pedal to the metal all the time. I guess if you looked in a dictionary under Sunday Drivers, you’d find a picture of Linda and me. We like to go for rides on back roads and cruise along slowly, enjoying the scenery, and watching for animal activity along the way. When an impatient driver gets behind us, I pull over and let them hurry on their way.

Some roads in Wisconsin are designated as Rustic Roads. When you travel on a Rustic Road, the speed limit is 45 mph. I think every road in Vernon County should be designated as a Rustic Road. It has to be one of the most beautiful, scenic areas in the country. Much of it is still wild, with a minimum amount of human habitation.

According to the Wisconsin DOT, a Rustic Road needs to possess the following qualities: It should have outstanding natural features along its borders, such as rugged terrain, native vegetation, native wildlife, or include open areas with agricultural vistas which singly, or in combination, set this road apart from other roads.

It should be a lightly traveled local access road, one which serves the adjacent property owners and those wishing to travel by auto, bicycle, or hiking for purposes of recreational enjoyment of its rustic features, and it should be a road not scheduled nor anticipated for major improvements that would change its rustic characteristics.

Most of the roads we like to travel on have those characteristics. They are definitely roads less traveled. It includes a lot of forested, wild country. I’ve often thought that a person who knew how to live and survive in nature, could hide out in those hills and coulees, and no one would discover them until hunting season, when the hills are alive with gun-toting, nature lovers. As my father used to say in his Norwegian accent, “Dose woods are really tick!”

Because the woods and vegetation are so “tick” this time of year, it’s such a different experience traveling on winding, hilly, country roads instead of the wide-open, busy interstate highways. The first thing you need to do if you want to enjoy a leisurely drive on a country road is slow down, roll the windows down, and turn off the air conditioning and radio. Then you’re ready to enjoy the ride.

As you drive slowly along, listen. Listen to the wind in the trees and grass. Listen to the birds singing. Listen to the gentle sound of water as it tumbles over the rocks if you’re alongside a stream. Stop and listen to the silence.

Feel the coolness of the shade on a hot summer day as you drive through a canopy of trees that reach out and form a tunnel over the road. It’s like driving through a time tunnel, back to a time when things seemed simpler and life moved at a slower pace.

As you wind your way slowly along those back-country roads, you’ll come across places that time has left behind. Abandoned farm houses and farm buildings are not uncommon. Their only occupants are now mice, birds, and the ghosts of the past. Quiet country roads are peopled with ghosts. I like to stop if there aren’t any no trespassing signs, and explore the old structures. I’m always looking for the story behind every door. Old barns and abandoned houses call out to be explored. You can almost hear the ghosts of past occupants, telling their stories.

As you travel slowly along country roads, you never know what animal or bird you may encounter around the next corner. We’ve come across deer eating alongside the road, deer and turkeys sharing the same cornfield, a red fox wandering along the ditch, bald eagles sitting in a tree or feasting on a carcass in a field beside the road. Rabbits, woodchucks, raccoon families, turkey buzzards, cranes, coyotes, cats out mousing alongside the road, and even an occasional skunk are spotted. Keep your camera handy for those Kodak moments.

When I need to slow down and unwind, a leisurely drive on country roads will do the trick. Be prepared to do a lot of waving too. The people you meet along those roads are friendly. They are down to earth, hard working people. They are people who also know about roads less traveled.

I’m often accused of never taking the same road twice. If we go one way, we always take another road home. I plead guilty as charged. As Yogi Berra said, “If you come to a fork in the road, take it.” He also said, “If you don’t know where you’re going, you may end up someplace else.” When I come to a fork in the road, I never know which way I may go. It’s always fun to find and explore new roads, country roads, the roads less traveled, and yes, we often end up someplace else.

That’s what’s great about taking roads less traveled. It’s always an adventure.

Is Anything Bugging You?

2011-06-25T18:50:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #345

I don’t know about you, but I’ve sure been bugged lately. It’s been so bad at times, I can hardly stand working outside. The pesky little gnats have been terrible this year. Some people refer to them as little black flies. Some of the names they’re called can’t be used in a family newspaper.

It doesn’t seem to matter what time of day it is, those gnats are looking for something to attack. They’ve taken a real liking to me. They form little black clouds, swarm around my head, and follow me wherever I go. It can be 100 degrees, 50 degrees, windy, calm, early in the day, or late in the evening, it doesn’t seem to matter. As soon as I step out the door the little buggers are there to greet me.

I’ve tried several products and recommendations from people who claim that the anti-bug remedies worked for them. None have worked for me. I told you they like me. I read somewhere that the little buggers are attracted to our breath because of the carbon dioxide. It seemed like a logical solution was to wear a facemask. It didn’t work. I’m as blind as a bat without my trifocal glasses, and when I used the mask, my hot breath steamed up my glasses. So that didn’t work.

One person told me that Listerine would keep them away if you sprinkle some on yourself. It was worth a try. I found an old, dirty cap, poured some on it, sprinkled a little around my neck, and for good measure, gargled with some. After all, they are attracted to our breath. Then I went forward to meet the enemy. They won again. I think they liked how I smelled, and they seemed to hone in on me from every direction. At least my hair had a nice, clean, Listerine smell afterwards. My breath wasn’t bad either.

One day I saw a product at Walgreens as I was checking out. You know how they conveniently position items near the cash register so you’re forced to examine them while you’re waiting. This little product claimed it would keep the bugs off. It was a light green, coiled bracelet to wear on your wrist. It was less than $2.00 so I decided to give it a try. I took that little, sweet-smelling thing out of its plastic wrapper and put it on my wrist. Look out bugs, here I come.

Danged if those pesky little buggers didn’t love it. They swarmed around my head as I was trying to water the new trees and shrubs I had planted. I even tried putting my hand with the colorful, smelly wristband on top of my head. Surely that would repel them. Wrong! They seem to have developed an overwhelming attraction to me, and neither sleet and hail, eye of newt, and toe of frog,  Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,  Adder's fork, and blind-worm’s sting,  Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,  or a hell-broth boil, while the fire burns and the cauldron bubbles, can scare them away. My apology to William Shakespeare and the three ugly witches in Macbeth for that great potion. When all else fails, resort to witchcraft. Unfortunately, even potions and witchcraft won’t keep the bugs away.

The $2.00 I spent for that insect-repelling wristband was certainly a waste of money, but at least it gave me some good story material to write about.

I know many people have resorted to wearing hats with mosquito-type netting hanging down from it to cover your head and neck. I’d try one of them but I think most stores have sold out. Vanilla hasn’t done the trick either. It made me smell good though… like a meal for gnats.

This whole buggy experience has reminded me of similar bug problems, in the heat and humidity of Vietnam. The mosquitoes were so bad at times, that nothing would keep them off either. We’d rub mosquito repellent all over our exposed skin, but that didn’t even help at times. I think our sweat and the daily rain washed most of it off.

One morning after sitting on an ambush patrol during the night, I counted over 50 mosquito bites on my hands in the morning. Needless to say, you didn’t go slapping at mosquitoes when you were trying to stay motionless and quiet. We may have been hiding, but you can’t hide from bugs and mosquitoes.

Sometimes I think the bugs and creepy crawly critters were more annoying than anything. One time at a forward firebase, the mosquitoes were so bad, we lit a pile of empty sand bags on fire and sat in the smoldering smoke to get some relief from them. The bugs won that battle too. Eventually you have to come out of the smoke.

As long as we’re talking about bugs, who can forget June Bugs. I saw a few of the big critters on our front porch last week. When I was young, it seemed like we had thousands of them. They swarmed around the yard light in the evening and hundreds of them would be on the ground. You couldn’t walk around without hearing the crunch when you stepped on them. Now if there was some way to crunch those pesky gnats.

Oh well, I try to look on the bright side, they won’t bug us once winter weather arrives!

Dixie Cups and Submarines

2011-06-18T20:44:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #344

I had a Dixie Cup ice cream recently and it just wasn’t the same. Oh, the ice cream was fine, but a Dixie Cup will always be missing something for those of us who remember when there were pictures on the bottom of the lids. When you pried up the lid, you never knew whose picture you might find. It was usually a famous cowboy, like Roy Rogers, or a Hollywood star. At least that was the case when I remember seeing them.

I decided to look Dixie Cups up on the Internet. I found out those pictures on the lids were used for 24 years, from 1930 to 1954. In that case, I was only ten years old when they discontinued the pictures. I could have sworn that I was much older when I was still finding pictures on the lids.

The first Dixie lids illustrated circus animals and performers in full color. They were associated with the Dixie circus radio stories of 1930, and they lasted for two years. The next group of lids appearing in 1932, was called “The Nature Series,” and featured dogs, birds, fish, and butterflies. In 1931, a special set of U.S. president lids was produced exclusively for the Philadelphia Dairy Products Company. In 1933, the first movie star series began. The first cowboy to appear was a profile of Ken Maynard in 1934.

I remember Roy Rogers’ picture, and discovered he was not only King of the Cowboys, but also king of the cowboy lids. His likeness appeared 12 times. The leading Hollywood stars were Bing Crosby and Johnny Mack Brown. Ginger Rogers and Betty Grable were the leading actresses.

There were also baseball stars featured in 1952 and 1953. Milwaukee Braves left-handed pitcher, Warren Spahn, was one of them. I found out that only 24 covers were issued each year. During the years of World War II, covers depicting the war effort were used.

I didn’t remember that there was a thin piece of wax paper over the top of the picture to protect the ink from the ice cream. When you pried up the lid, you removed the wax paper to reveal the picture. Dixie printed the pictures in blue during the even numbered years from 1938 to 1952, and a brownish color in odd numbered years from 1937 to 1953.

How many of you remember all that? Did any of you collect the different Dixie Cup lids? Most of the lids can now be found for $2 to $3 in mint condition, except for a few of the more popular ones, like John Wayne and Hopalong Cassidy. They can fetch $25 or more. If you collected the baseball series of 1952, many of those lids can bring $100 because of their rarity. I know we had a bunch of Dixie lids at one time, but I suspect they were long ago relegated to the trash burn pile and went up in a cloud of smoke, along with many other “treasures.”

We can’t forget that we also got ice cream in those Dixie Cups. That was always a special treat. They even came with a small wooden spoon to eat the ice cream with. They resembled those wooden sticks a doctor puts in your mouth to make you say, “Ahhhh.” Except the Dixie spoons had a flat spoon shape on one end. Do you remember those spoons?

It’s surprising what memories are triggered by a simple thing like a Dixie Cup filled with ice cream, and what pleasure they brought to us when we were young. Remembering those picture lids, also brought back memories of cereal box offerings from the 1950’s.

Do you remember Baking Powder Submarines? They were introduced in 1954, during the time of the first nuclear powered submarine. They were advertised on Kellogg’s cereal boxes. You had to mail in a quarter, along with the cereal boxtop to prove you had bought the cereal. It was a great advertising gimmick to sell cereal to kids. I remember sending in my quarter and the boxtop and then not so patiently waiting the two or three weeks for it to arrive. My folks didn’t need to ask me to get the mail, because I anxiously checked the mailbox every day, hoping I’d find a package for me inside.

It was a great day when the package, addressed to me, finally arrived. I might add, it was always a big deal for us kids to receive a letter or package in the mail. It didn’t happen very often. We filled that little submarine, about four inches long, with Ma’s baking powder, filled the bathroom sink, and watched in wonder as our little submarine cruised around, under the water! When it ran out of fuel (baking powder) it would rise to the surface and we’d have to refuel it. I wonder how much of Ma’s baking powder we “wasted.” I guess it didn’t take much to amuse us. I think my brother, David, probably sent for one too, or the two of us would have been fighting over who was the commander of the one sub.

Later, a smaller version of the submarine came in the cereal box, and also Navy frogmen that operated on baking powder.

Kellogg’s cereal and Dixie Cups were our ticket to some simple pleasures when we were young. I think the food involved was secondary.

Thr News... Hot Off the Press

2011-06-11T15:13:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #343

Who says this isn’t Global Warming? I’d have a hard time convincing the people around here that it isn’t. I don’t usually write about the weather unless there’s nothing else to write about, but this week the hot weather has been the main topic of conversations.

How hot has it been this week as I write this? The temperature broke records in La Crosse the past couple days when it hit 100 degrees. Here in Westby, the Westby Coop Creamery hasn’t had to make cottage cheese this week; the milk was already curdled by the time it got to the creamery.

In Central City, Iowa, it was so hot that people found out, the hard way, that a seat belt buckle could also be used as a branding iron.

It was so hot in Black River Falls that people could dip a cup of water from the Black River, throw a tea bag in it, and drink it without even heating the water. I wonder if you could call that instant tea.

It's been so hot in Boscobel this week, the farmers have been feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying hard boiled eggs.

Down in Gays Mills, Editor Charley Pruesser, looked out his office window this afternoon and saw robins using potholders to pull worms out of the ground!

Meanwhile, up in Fairfax, Minnesota, I heard the snowmen from last winter finally melted! Just remember, we had a cold spring up until a few days ago. I think those last patches of frozen snow on north-facing slopes should have finally disappeared this week.

Even the dogs weren’t moving this past week up around Elmwood, Spring Valley, and Woodville. Lena and Ole saw trees pleading with the dogs to come and cool them off, but not a dog raised his head… or leg.

I heard a rumor it was so hot in La Farge and Viola this week, several people got severely sunburned just going from their car to their house.

There were even rumors that Vernon Memorial Hospital treated many people with burned tongues when they tried to drink from public drinking fountains (bubblers to some of you). Seems the cold water had turned into very hot water. I knew you could get your tongue stuck on a pump handle in the winter, but burning your tongue while drinking from a drinking fountain is another story.

Friends in Madison told me it was so hot at the State Capitol, the usual hot air that fills the place seemed cold compared to the outside temperature. Uff da, that’s hot!!

Here in Vernon County it was so hot that when Linda and I cruised the back roads, we found some road kill venison, it was charbroiled to perfection on the hot blacktop! And it was free. You can’t beat a deal like that.

People around here are calling it the dog days of summer. Trouble is, it’s not even summer yet. Uff da, what’s it going to be like once it gets really hot.

I know many of you probably find it hard to believe all the incidents I’ve just reported, but hey, I just report the news. Chances are by the time you read this, the temperature could be down in the 40’s or 50’s again. I’m hoping it doesn’t stay in the high 90’s or 100 too long.

I planted trees and shrubs over the weekend, before it turned so hot. Probably not the best idea. Now I’ve been watering the heck out of them in the evenings to keep them alive.

We need some trees around our house. We don’t have a big shade tree in the yard where I can sit on hot days like this. It takes a long time for a tree to grow big enough to provide some shade. I’ll probably be pushing up Geraniums before I get to enjoy the shade of the trees I just planted. I guess when we plant trees, we have to plant them with the thought that future generations will be able to enjoy the shade on hot days like this. I have no idea who planted the big Maple trees on our farm where I grew up. They were huge when we moved there. We had a lot of fun climbing in those trees and playing in their shade.

I helped my dad when he dug up a couple of Maple trees in our woods. We planted those small trees in our yard and they grew. Our children got to climb and play in them. They enjoyed swinging in the simple swing attached to a limb. Every child should swing in a “real” swing – a simple rope attached to a limb with a board seat with notches cut into the sides to keep it on the rope. Those two Maples we planted grew fast, and I got to enjoy lying in the cool grass in the shade and resting at noon before heading back to the hot fields. We also sat at the picnic table in the shade and enjoyed a morning and afternoon break for coffee.

Hopefully I’ll be able to enjoy a little shade from the Maples I just planted. If I don’t get to sit in the shade of those trees on a hot summer day, listening to their leaves rustle, at least I know others will enjoy them.

How To Get A Farmer Tan

2011-06-04T18:06:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #342

They say Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer. It certainly arrived with a blast of hot, humid air. What a change after the long, wet, cold, spring we’ve had. What a change one day brings. Sunday was cold, wet, and windy. It wasn’t a very nice day for all the high school graduation parties, but the weather certainly made them memorable, as people tried to keep the tents from blowing over.

What a difference a day makes. Memorial Day was beautiful. The sun was shining, the temperature almost hit 90, and people could finally wear t-shirts and shorts instead of winter jackets and long johns. Except for those of you who spent the winter soaking up the sun down south, most of us “Northerners” look like a bunch of albino whales washed up on the beach. We haven’t even been able to acquire a farmer tan. For those city folks not familiar with a farmer tan, let me explain. Farmers don’t generally go around with their shirts off in the summer. They wear short sleeve work shirts or long sleeve work shirts with the sleeves rolled up as far as they can roll them. They also wear farm caps, usually given to them by feed or agri-business sales people. A farmer never has to buy a new cap. They just keep piling up like bills during a bad crop year. Most farmers could wear a different cap every day of the month.

As I said, you’re not going to see many farmers with their shirts off, so chances are you won’t get to witness a farmer tan either. In my younger days I can’t say that I ever witnessed a farmer take his shirt off. But then, I may not have realized it even if they did. After working in the fields all day under the hot, blazing sun, their arms and faces were tanned a dark brown. If they did take their shirt off, it would have looked from a distance, like they were wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt. Since most farmers wore a hat, their forehead was also white and the rest of their face was a coarse, wind-blown, sun tanned brown.

I don’t have any scientific evidence to back up my thinking, but when I was young, just about everybody I knew was Lutheran. You don’t find Lutherans going around flinging their clothes off as soon as it gets a little hot outside and lying down on a beach to soak up the sun. Maybe it was a bit of modesty that had been drilled into us each Sunday or maybe it took us northern Lutherans most of the summer to finally warm up enough after our cold winters, to finally strip off our long sleeve shirts and long johns. By that time, winter was starting to set in again, so why bother. And another thing, farmers didn’t have time or the need to work at getting a suntan like people do these days. They just went about their everyday work and the suntan took care of itself.

I don’t know the answer to the farmer tan, but perhaps it was a climate-induced, Lutheran theology that made us wear what we did. As I said, this isn’t a scientific-based study, just my humble opinion, after my body and brain accelerated from 50 degrees to 90 degrees in one day.

Now I have a wimpy, inside job, and find it hard to get a farmer tan or any tan for that matter. Mostly I just get red and peel these days, during those rare occasions when I get to spend extended time outside. The only way to keep from getting burned is to put on a lot of clothes, which kind of defeats the purpose of tanning. There we are right back to the farmer tan again and I’m not even farming.

I do have to admit that I got more sun than I was used to on Memorial Day. I spent the morning at the Coon Valley Memorial Day parade and ceremony and ended up with a rather unusual tan. At the moment, it’s not tan; it’s mostly red. Instead of a farmer tan I’ll have to call it a “VFW hat tan.” At least it kept most of my balding head from burning, but I did have a rather distinct “V” border to my tan last night. At least it’s blended more together today and isn’t as noticeable.

Most sensible people would apply a sunscreen when they know they’re going to be spending time in the hot sun. I have no excuse. I know I should have used some yesterday. When I was young, I don’t know if they even had sunscreen. I know we never used it. If people talked about getting skin cancer from too much exposure to the sun, I don’t remember hearing about it. We didn’t know cigarettes caused cancer either, until they put a warning label on the packs.

I have a dark complexion and have to admit, I went all summer without wearing a shirt while we worked in the fields and was very dark brown. I never had a farmer tan in those days. I wasn’t a farmer so I couldn’t have a farmer’s tan, I was a farmer’s son, so… I wonder if what I had was a “farmer’s son tan?”

Have a sunny summer!

Memorial Day Thoughts - 2011

2011-05-28T18:28:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #341

As I write this column, Memorial Day is a week away. This year I’ve been invited to be the speaker at the Coon Valley Memorial Day service. We’ll be remembering the sacrifices of our fallen comrades, while the vast majority of Americans will be enjoying a three-day weekend with little or no thought or participation in the activities connected with what the day means.

They’ll be enjoying a three-day weekend because of the lives lost that some of us will be remembering on Memorial Day. That includes my friends who lost their lives during a battle in May, 44 years ago. One of those killed was my training partner at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, where 20 of us from the 4th Infantry underwent medical training together.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 44 years since those terrible days in May of 1967 during the Vietnam War, when we lost 76 killed and over 200 wounded. It’s a lifetime ago, yet it seems like only yesterday. This is still a tough time of year for me to deal with. It’s the universal problem that most survivors of war feel – guilt because we’re still alive and many of our friends are not. For some reason, we were the lucky ones and made it home alive.

I’d like to mention some of those fellow medics I trained and worked with.
Bob Sherman is my cousin, and we were drafted together from Vernon County. We went through basic training together with the 4th Infantry in Fort Lewis, Washington. During medical training we shared a bunk, he was on top and I was on the bottom.

Wesley and I were training partners and practiced on each other during classes, learning to give shots, draw blood, and give IV’s. Not the most fun time I’ve ever had. It was pretty brutal when we were first learning how to hit veins on each other!

Nagl, Lebitz, Alesick and I often studied our class notes together at night while having a few beers. Nagl, Lebitz, Steele, and I also enjoyed playing chess during free time in the evenings.

Those training days and chess matches seemed like a distant memory as we sat around the aid tent near Ban Me Thout in May, 1967. We were all involved in an operation to find a couple of NVA regiments who were in the area.

Nagl, Lebitz, Steele, and I didn’t play any chess on that operation. We did play some cards though. Steele was a writer and hoped to write the great American war novel. I remember his wonderful poetry. One night while we were on the operation that lead up to the Nine Days In May Battle, a bunch of us medics were sitting around in the aid tent and Steele read some of the war poems he had written since being in Vietnam. They were very moving.

What happened to those medics who were enjoying being together and listening to John read his poetry that night: Wesley - killed, Lebitz- killed, Mason - wounded, Jacobs - wounded, Prince - wounded, Marcos - wounded, Bob Sherman - wounded. Alesick and Culpepper came out with no physical wounds. Steele was assigned to the aid station. Nagl was on R&R in Japan when the battle took place and has been filled with survivor guilt ever since. I was needed by the Battalion Surgeon in the aid station during the battle, and worked on wounded that had been evaced.

How can a battle I wasn’t in have such a lasting impact on a person? It seems to me that after 44 years I could put all this to rest and let it die. I’ve tried to analyze the situation over the years. I think it’s safe to say I carry a lot of survivor guilt also. Nagl and I feel like we deserted our friends because we weren’t with them when we all needed each other the most.

I know I was just following orders when I was assigned to the aid station, but that doesn’t do much to lessen the feeling. I know that if I had been there, it wouldn’t have changed anything as far as the battle is concerned. My friends who were killed and wounded would still have been casualties. One reason so many medics went down that day was because the snipers in the trees picked them off as they tried to get to the wounded to help. The chances are good that if I’d been there, I’d also have been a casualty. Once that happened, I’d have been of no use to anyone either. As we were told in medical training... “Don’t try to be a hero, a dead medic is of no use to anyone!”

So, I wasn’t a hero and I’m still alive. Those of us who are still alive on this Memorial Day will remember those who weren’t as lucky. These extra years have been a gift and I don’t want to waste a single day.

I think author Ben Logan said it best. He was the only one in his crew to survive World War II. He said, “I still think of those men. The incident changed my life and made life increasingly precious. I pledged then that I would never waste a moment. I dedicated myself to live for them too.”

Amen to that brother, from all of us survivors.

Outhouse Adventures - Inside the John

2011-05-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #340

My stories about outhouses certainly brought more stories out from behind the lilac bushes and into the light. It seems to be a subject that is near and dear to the heart of those people who once beat a path to them in all kinds of weather.

I keep telling Linda we really need an outhouse out behind our house. I was going to make it non-usable. By that I mean that it wouldn’t have any holes in the seat. Then I wouldn’t have to dig a hole under it either. I told her I could go out there and sit in the peace and quiet while writing my stories. Think of the great inspiration I could get from that setting… or is that sitting? I could even put in a reclining seat so I could put my legs up and really get comfortable. Can’t you just see a couple of legs sticking out the door of an outhouse? That would certainly make people wonder what was going on, as if an outhouse near a modern house wouldn’t be enough to set the tongues wagging.

A modern outhouse doesn’t have to be a drab place like the old ones that you and I once knew. I could decorate the inside with outhouse pictures and memorabilia and have a bookshelf with books about outhouses for your reading enjoyment. I’d even wallpaper it, with outhouse related art of course, and put in some indoor/outdoor carpeting. It could even have a seat warmer so I’d never have to sit on a cold seat again. I might even paint the outside white and call it the “White House.” I think it’s a good name for an outhouse.

Don’t you think an outhouse where I can do my writing is a great idea? OK, Linda wasn’t too crazy about it either.

I still think there are many good reasons to bring back outhouses. I’ve heard people have become so accustomed to constant noise around them from TV’s, radios, cell phones, and numerous other technology items, that they don’t know what peace and quiet is. If people aren’t listening to constant noise, they’re texting on their cell phones. Maybe what they need is an outhouse where they can sit in peace and quiet and do some thinking. And... they wouldn’t be allowed to bring a cell phone, portable TV, radio, or any other listening or viewing device. That would probably freak many people out.

I’m just trying to think outside the box, or inside the John in this case, and provide a place where people can have some quiet time, maybe even do some meditating. Have you ever tried to find a quiet place where you could sit for a few minutes and do some meditation? It’s almost impossible. That’s why we need outhouses!

However, outhouses aren’t always a place of peace and quiet. Bonnie Howell-Sherman, publisher and editor of the La Farge Epitaph News, said after my last outhouse story, “My grandma didn’t have indoor plumbing until I was seven or eight. My uncle, who ran the farm, was notorious for having Black Cat firecrackers on hand. Someone (I’m not sure who… one of the older cousins as I remember) put a firecracker in the outhouse... while occupied by our uncle. Need I say more?”

I wonder if that scared the “you know what” out of her uncle? It couldn’t be any worse than having someone tip the outhouse over while you’re in it. I’ve heard stories about that happening, but can’t personally attest to their authenticity.

As all of you who have used an outhouse know, there is one major drawback to using an outhouse as a place to write and meditate during the cold winters we experience here in the frozen tundra. It’s just too darn cold to spend any amount of time sitting there.

I mentioned that an outhouse gives you a quiet place to think outside the box, or inside the John. I’ve been doing some thinking and have come up with a solution to those cold, winter outhouses. Solar energy. I figure if I put some solar panels on the roof of my writing and meditation facility outhouse, I can generate enough heat to keep it warm and cozy during the long, winter months. Then, even if it’s snowing and the wind is blowing, I’ll be sitting in comfort in my solar-powered outhouse. Hey, don’t laugh; it just might work.

Some of you are probably thinking at this point that I’ve lost it and need to be locked in an outhouse with padded walls, until my thinking clears up. Maybe it’s still clouded by all that smoke from the trees they burned on Sherpe Road. Whatever it is, I think those of you who have been outhouse sitters know what I mean. It was a quiet, private place, away from the hustle and bustle of daily life… a perfect place to sit, think, and write.

So if you’re driving on Sherpe Road one day and see an outhouse with solar panels on the roof, don’t be surprised if you see feet sticking out the open door. That will be me kicking back in my recliner, laptop in hand, working on my next column. There’s nothing like a little thinking… inside the John.

The "Ole Battalion" of World War II

2011-05-16T17:50:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence Extra

During the American Civil War, Colonel Heg commanded the 15th Wisconsin, composed almost entirely of Norwegians. So many of the men were named Ole, that I like to refer to them as the “Ole Regiment.”

Most people are not aware that one of the U.S. Army’s more distinct units during World War II was the 99th Infantry Battalion (Separate), also composed of Norwegian-Americans. I like to call it the “Ole Battalion.”

In 1942 the army decided to organize a battalion of Norwegian nationals, who would infiltrate Norway and help free their fellow Norwegians and relatives from German occupation. The men would be Norwegians, Norwegian immigrants, and second-generation Americans of Norwegian descent. Most of the men who were transferred, or volunteered, to the 99th battalion, came from the ”Norwegian” areas in Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, and the Dakotas.

Those selected were all fluent in Norwegian, and most knew how to ski. They were a mixture of infantrymen, paratroop, and mountaineer specialists. Their insignia was a shield with a Viking ship, in the Norwegian national colors of red, white, and blue. These Norwegian-speaking, U.S. soldiers would be sent on special commando missions in Norway, behind enemy lines, and needed to blend in with the local populace. What better disguise could you have than a bunch of guys who looked and sounded like the Norwegian people.

I’ve known two men who served in this Norwegian “Ole Battalion.”

Owen Bekkum, who now lives in Madison, is a Westby, Wisconsin native. Owen grew up speaking Norwegian and learned to ski at an early age, as did most boys around Westby. He was a member of the 99th Infantry Battalion during training at Camp Hale, Colorado, and was later transferred to the 10th Mountain Division.

Thomas Skattum, of Belmont, Wisconsin, joined the 99th in England in April, 1944, and was with the unit until he was discharged after the war.

In 1942, Owen Bekkum from Westby, was a Freshman in college in Milwaukee. One of his best friends, Stanley Lunde, was his roommate. After the Fall semester they were told they didn’t need to register for the next semester because they would soon be drafted.
He was drafted in March, 1943, along with DeVerne Mathison, also from Westby.

One day while they were training with the 106th Infantry Division at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, Owen, DeVerne, and five other men in their unit who spoke Norwegian and could ski, were told they were being transferred to a Norwegian Battalion at Camp Hale, Colorado. They went by train to Denver and then headed up to Leadville and their first view of the Rocky Mountains. Camp Hale was located near Leadville at 9,300 feet. Owen said, “After South Carolina, we thought we’d died and gone to Heaven.”

The story is told that one day Marvin Skogrand from Minnesota was told to report to headquarters. They had seen in his records that he came from a Norwegian background. They asked if he knew any foreign languages, and he said no, because he didn’t consider Norwegian a foreign language. But when he found out they were looking for Norwegians to join a special unit, he told them, “I can speak Norwegian!”

Thus began the journey for Owen, DeVern, Marvin, and many other Norwegian-speaking soldiers who would soon find themselves training as ski troop commandos to help liberate Norway.

At Camp Hale, Owen and his friend, DeVerne, were assigned to different companies for training. They were immediately thrown in with men who had already been training in the mountains for several weeks. The thin mountain air was rough on the flatlanders at first. Even the big hills of Coon Valley and Timber Coulee couldn’t prepare a person for the mountains. Anyone who has visited the mountains knows how winded and tired you get the first few days just walking around.

Owen said, “We weren’t going to let on that we were tired and couldn’t keep up. There’s pride and a little bit of macho involved.” Owen said, “I didn’t weigh 150 pounds at the time!”

The training was tough. A book called The 99th Battalion by Gerd Nyquist, published in Oslo, Norway in 1981, says that 40% of the men didn’t make it through the training. Try hiking up a mountain with a backpack full of gear, your rifle, plus heavy wood skis and ski poles. It says that every soldier carried from 70 to 90 pounds of gear, depending on the assignment to be carried out. They would spend a week at a time living in the mountains and snow, and learning survival skills. It took some very tough, special men to complete that grueling training.

The winter training at Camp Hale took place for the most part on skis or on snowshoes, and spending the night outside, or taking daily trips with overnight stops. The big load of clothes and equipment, had to be carried on these trips.

They were often in altitudes of 10,000 to 12,000 feet. It was difficult to light the ovens so the food could be heated up. It was also difficult to eat the food, because it froze between the food container and the person’s mouth. Water froze in the canteens. The ski boots had to be put in the sleeping bags overnight, so they would not be frozen stiff the next morning.

Owen tells of waking up in the mornings in a sleeping bag covered with frost. His early skiing, which had consisted of skiing on back pastures, as most of us Westby kids did at one time, helped when it came to learning to ski down a mountain.

I asked Owen if he ever got hurt. “Only one time,” He said. A soldier from out East wanted to ski with him. He said he was showing off a little, how fast he could ski down the mountain, through the trees. He fell and sprained an ankle! He got back up and kept going. “If you did get hurt you never wanted to show or admit it,” he said.

After the snow had melted, the ski training was replaced with mountain climbing and rappelling down the rock cliffs to practice warfare in the mountains. The backpack was lighter, only 44 pounds, plus they carried their personal weapon and ammunition.

After successfully completing the training with the 99th Infantry, Owen was asked by Major Sofus Urberg, from Galesville, Wisconsin, to transfer with him to the 90th Infantry Regiment of the 10th Mountain Division. He then spent the next two years with the 10th.

In 1944, the 99th was sent to England, where Lt. Tom Skattum, joined the battalion. His platoon was the first unit of the 99th Battalion to go ashore on Omaha Beach at Normandy. They took part in the fighting in France, and fought in the Normandy Campaign, the North France Campaign, the Battles at Würzeln/Aachen, and the Battle of the Bulge.

Some historians feel the 99th should have been attached to the 10th Mountain Division where their mountain and ski training could have been put to better use in the Italian campaigns.

The original purpose of the 99th, was to participate in ”Operation Plough,” the liberation of Norway. But the only sabotage action in Norway by the 99th was ”Operation Rype.” Their main target was the railway and took place during the autumn of 1944. A small group of saboteurs blew up the railroad lines and disrupted German soldiers trying to leave Norway and reinforce the depleted German forces in Europe.

In June 1945, the 99th finally arrived in Norway. This was a very special moment for the men as they arrived in the country of their Norwegian roots. Their task was guard duty during the repatriation of the 375,000 Germans still in Norway.

Tom was among the 54 American soldiers of the 99th Battalion Honor Guard that welcomed King Haakon back to Norway from exile in England.

On November 1, 1945, Tom and the 99th Battalion arrived back in the US, and it was disbanded shortly after.

Like so many other World War II veterans, Owen and Tom feel very fortunate to have survived the war. Owen’s two best friends from Westby, Clifford Barstad and Stanley Lunde, were killed.

The training and ordeals the men of the 99th Battalion endured, has stayed with them. They were challenged, as most of us will never be challenged, and rose to meet that challenge. They had lived and survived in almost unbelievable conditions, and feel it instilled a self-confidence that they could do anything, and as a result, anything was possible.

Owen said the loss of his two best friends had a big impact on him. It made him think there must be some purpose that he survived the war.

I think the world needed him to survive the war and succeed in business and life, more than the army needed another casualty of war. If Owen had been lost in the war, would Westby have a new library? Would Norskedalen still be just an idea... not a reality? Would Westby graduates be receiving thousands of dollars in scholarships each year? Would Vesterheim be what it is today? Would the Norwegian-American Genealogical Center be the success it is today? Those are just five things he’s been involved in.

Owen Bekkum, Tom Skattum, and the men of the 99th (The Ole Battalion), one of the most unique units of World War II, truly are members of the “Greatest Generation.”

49 Years and A Wakeup

2011-05-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #339

It’s that time of year when high school students are preparing for graduation. Those seniors are finally realizing how quickly four years can go. I can almost remember my high school graduation. I say almost, because it’s been a long time since the Westby High School class of ’62 walked across the stage and were handed a diploma. That’s 1962!

For those of you who paid attention during math class, you should be able to do the subtraction. For those of you who had other things on your mind, the answer is 49. Math was not one of my strong points, but I know this is the correct number, because I recently received a letter informing me that I’m on the planning committee for our 50th reunion next summer.

Uff da, that number can’t possibly be right. I remember when my mother and father had their 50th reunions and they were old at the time. At least I thought they were. I remember thinking they would be mighty small reunions because they couldn’t have that many classmates who were still above ground. And now, here we are, one year away from that momentous occasion.

Truth be told, high school was not the best time of my life. I don’t have very many good memories. I was talking with a fellow classmate, Monte Nelson, about our high school experiences one day. He said that high school was not a happy time for him either. He said, “High school was the longest twelve years of my life.” Just to set the record straight, Monte gave me permission to use his name in this story. They lived on a farm near Coon Valley. He went on to say that his family was very poor. How poor were they? Monte said they were so poor that his mother had to make stone soup for supper, but didn’t have anything else to throw in the pot with the stones. Then in the morning, his father would crush the remaining stones so he could put them in his sandwich to take to school. Now that was so poor, even I couldn’t come up with a good story to out-poor him!

I reminded Monte about one of our classmates who liked to intimidate people by hitting them in the arm. One day in Ag class, before our teacher arrived, he hauled off and nailed me in the upper arm. It really hurt and my “Hothead Sven” gene suddenly erupted. I grabbed him and we both went tumbling over a table and I landed on the floor on top of him. Just then, Mr. Nestingen came into the room. I must have looked like the guilty party as I sat straddling him with my fist raised, ready to deliver another blow. The fight came to an abrupt halt as Mr. Nestingen took control of the situation. At least my classmate never messed with me again.

Ah yes, those good old high school days. The ensuing 49 years have seen several of our classmates head off to that big reunion in the great beyond, including the guy I had the altercation with. Ardy Sloane is another classmate who recently joined them. She died last fall while getting ready for school one morning. Since both our names started with “S,” she usually sat behind me in class. Ardy taught English and Journalism at North-Linn High School in Iowa, and was able to read my column each week in the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa. She often sent me e-mails commenting on my stories. I miss her comments and often got ideas for stories from her. She commented one time that she and I would probably be the only people at our 50th reunion who aren’t retired. Even though teaching could be frustrating at times, she still loved it.

Regarding teaching, she once wrote: “I’m not a teacher who believes in pigeon-holing kids into high, low, and in-between potential. Poop on that. In my view, that just encourages and reinforces learned behavior. I believe every student is capable of excellence if encouraged.” What a great attitude toward teaching and her student’s abilities. I suspect her students will look back on their high school years and have her on their list of favorite teachers.

Now she’s gone and maybe I’ll be the only one still working full-time when we have our 50th reunion next summer. Uff da.

I’ve got to admit, I’ve only attended three of my class reunions. That probably had something to do with it not being the best time of my life. I did attend our 40th and had a good time visiting with classmates. The nice part is that Westby isn’t a large school with thousands of students. We all knew each other, and believe it or not, most of us can still recognize each other, even though most of us look nothing like we did when we were in high school. I also liked that because we were older, no one was trying to impress anyone, as people tend to do in their younger years. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. I like that attitude. As one classmate said, “Why didn’t we all talk together like this in high school?”

That was a great question. It would have made the high school experience better for everyone.

Eulogy To A Road

2011-05-07T18:32:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #338

As I stood in the middle of what was left of Sherpe Road, in the early morning hours of Arbor Day, my heart was heavy. Smoke filled the air from burning brush piles. It’s been that way for several days along Highway 14 between Westby and Viroqua.

As I stood on what used to be a beautiful, peaceful, tree-lined road, the scene that surrounded me looked like a bombed out, smoldering landscape in the midst of war. Everything had been destroyed. There was hardly a blade of grass left standing. Fifty-year-old trees had been ripped from the ground, bulldozed into huge piles, and set on fire. Nothing was spared. Everything was gone, and I felt naked and exposed as I stood there among the ruins. I also felt sadness and a lot of anger.

There is no good reason for all this destruction. It was even more ironic that it was Arbor Day as I stood there, a day when we should be planting trees, not destroying them. I thought of the many lives along the path of destruction that have been disrupted and changed; homes destroyed, farms destroyed, farmland destroyed, trees and wildlife habitat destroyed, and all for what one person described to me as a “road to nowhere.”

I’ve talked with a lot of people and they all say they don’t understand why this four-lane is being built. We had a flat, good highway, with only one gradual curve. We’re talking about a new stretch of highway that’s only 4.5 miles long. If you speed on the new highway, you might gain one or two extra minutes at the most as you travel between the two cities. Then it funnels back down to two lanes through town. Is that extra minute or two worth all the destruction? Is it worth spending millions of dollars on, when the state of Wisconsin is supposed to be broke? I guess it’s worth it to the politicians in Madison, and the powers to be in the Wisconsin DOT, who seem to have no concept of what life is like outside the Republic of Madison.

Several people have told me that they voiced their opinions and opposition to the project at DOT listening sessions, but nobody was listening—it was like talking to a brick wall. Everything had already been decided.

According to our governor, the state is broke, but you’d never know it by the millions of dollars they’re spending to destroy the countryside between Westby and Viroqua. The political leaders want to make drastic spending cuts in education and senior-related programs, but the state can still pay contractors millions of dollars to build roads to nowhere. Maybe if we had spent more money on education in the past, our leaders would be better equipped to make these decisions.

Perhaps it’s just the smoke from all the burning trees and brush piles that’s clouding my mind, so I can’t see the big picture. The only picture I see, is total destruction, devastation, and property destroyed. Sherpe Road that used to be home to wildlife and birds in all the trees and bushes, that had wild plum trees and wild blackberries, that was beautiful to drive or walk through in all seasons, is now a barren wasteland – everything destroyed.

The Olson property on the corner of Tri-State Road and Highway 14, where Faye McClurg lived – destroyed. The house, barn, and beautiful trees where the Clara Olson family lived – destroyed. The farm where Pete Erickson lived when I was young – destroyed. It was Pete and my father who used to talk across the fence and where the name for this column came from. Smith School, that had been converted into a home is now gone. So are all the large, old trees that stood around the school – destroyed. The field where my grandparents, Oscar and Julia Hanson, raised tobacco and strawberries – destroyed. The field where my uncle and aunt, Maynard and Jeannette Hanson, raised tobacco – destroyed. Part of Thompson’s field along the highway – destroyed. Rogers house and fields along the highway – destroyed. The homes next to the Wayside Park, where the root beer stand was – destroyed. Those are just the places near where we live that are affected. That’s also a lot of history destroyed.

Is it any wonder that I felt sadness and anger as I stood among the destruction on Arbor Day? They say you can’t beat a dead horse, and this horse is dead. It’s been destroyed, not because it was hurt or ailing, but killed for no good reason. I just wanted to let people know what a fine horse it was before it was destroyed.

This is my eulogy to that fine horse, to the lives disrupted and land destroyed along that highway. It will take another 50 years before that landscape begins to resemble what’s been destroyed. Most of us will be gone by then. My hope is that the generations coming behind us are better stewards of the land, and not so quick to destroy everything in order to gain an extra minute of time. I hope they’ll have a better appreciation for nature and not want to bulldoze everything down and cement it over.

Only time will tell. Meanwhile, Rest In Peace!

Another Year Older and Still Riding

2011-04-30T09:25:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #337

By the time you read this I will have slipped quietly from one age into another. I’m another year older. William Shakespeare wrote about aging: “Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?”

I admit that I’m a year older, but I don’t feel like an antique. My mind is still functioning, but it’s getting harder to find and retrieve the information stored in it. I like to say my mind is like a computer, the more information I put in it; the longer it takes to find the compartment where I stored it. So, if you meet me on the street and say, “Hi Howard,” don’t be surprised if I stare blankly at you as my mind says to me, “Who the heck is this person?” My computer is merely searching through its data bank. Unfortunately, it sometimes runs into a brick wall or an empty room. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. Do any of you ever look in the mirror and wonder who that old bugger is that’s staring back at you?

Recently, a man in his late 80’s told me, “My mind still thinks that I should be able to do anything, but my body won’t cooperate.” I knew what he was talking about. I’m still in my 60’s, but my body definitely knows it has a lot of mileage on it. I can’t do things the way I once did them.

There’s another Shakespeare quote that I like: “Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.”

It may take us older folks longer to do something, but inch-by-inch, anything’s a cinch. We may have to spend all day chopping away at that hard oak, but it will come down. That’s a good quote to apply to many things in life. If the task at hand, or an obstacle, looms too large in front of us, we think it’s insurmountable. That’s when small steps, small strokes, will eventually bring us to the top of the mountain. We may not win the race, but we will finish!

Just because our bodies are aging, doesn’t mean that we have to stop doing, thinking, and learning new things.

I’m on the backside of the sixth decade of this journey through the hills and valleys of life. It’s been quite a ride so far. I want to keep riding and enjoying the trip. There’s still so much I want to do and learn. As I begin the 67th year of this journey, what have I learned so far?

I’ve learned that life is a lot like a county fair. There are lots of rides to give us a thrill, games of chance to take our money, and the offer of great rewards and prizes if we’re willing to take a chance.

I’ve learned that politicians are like carney barkers. They offer us great prizes if we’ll support their game, but the majority of them seldom deliver the prizes they promise.
I’ve learned that life is too precious and short to waste. Make use of every waking moment you have. It can be gone in the blink of an eye.

I’ve learned that life and technology keep changing. You need to constantly adapt your thinking or be left behind. Change can be exciting.

I’ve learned that we need to take things less seriously. 95% of the things we worry about, we have no control over and can’t change anyway.

I’ve learned that if you want financial security in old age, you better start planning when you’re young and not depend on the government or someone else to take care of you. The retirement plan for many of us is death.

I’ve learned that life is not what you hope to do, or say you’re going to do, but what you actually do.

I’ve learned that when life looks the darkest, even a small light is appreciated and gives you hope to keep on going.

I’ve learned that money and possessions come and go. Some friends come and go depending on our good or bad fortunes, but the real friends, who are always there through thick and thin, are priceless!

I’ve learned that some people have a mind like an old steel trap. It’s rusted shut. No matter what you do or say, it’s not going to change their thinking.

I’ve learned that even a dead fish can float downstream. If you want to get someplace, you need to expend some effort and often swim against the current.

I’ve also learned that a door will open when you least expect it. We have the choice of closing it or walking through to see what new adventure awaits us. I’m curious and always want to know what’s beyond that door.

I’ll leave you with this final thought by Joseph Campbell. “You don’t want to get to the top of the ladder, or the end of your life, only to find it was leaning against the wrong wall.” Follow your bliss and dreams. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal. Don’t waste it.

Dr. Bland Made House Calls

2011-04-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #336

Do you remember country doctors… the kind that used to make house calls? For those of us who have more years behind us than in front of us, we remember those days of being on the receiving end of a house call.

Here in Westby, we just lost one of those doctors. Phillips T. Bland died on April 15, 2011, at the age of 87. He came to Westby in 1952, and practiced medicine until he retired in 2006. He was also a Staff Physician at Vernon Memorial Hospital for 57 years, and mentored hundreds of young medical students in the UW-Medical School preceptor program. He was also involved in numerous civic organizations and projects, and internationally known as a designer of ski jumps. Dr. Bland was an icon in the Westby area.

But those are just a few of the facts that can be found in the obituary for “Doc” Bland, as he was affectionately known. As with most obituaries, they don’t reach inside and pull the heart out of the person.

Dr. Bland was our family physician for many years. My mother had severe asthma for most of her life. It developed into emphysema in her later years. I remember many times over the years when Dr. Bland would be called in the evening because she was having trouble breathing. A short time later, car lights would come down our road and turn into our driveway. Dr. Bland would come in the house, medical bag in hand, and always wearing a friendly smile to greet us. You knew he had been interrupted from a family gathering or some type of activity, after a long, busy day at the office and hospital. Maybe he had been sitting with his feet up in a Lazy Boy, reading his paper and relaxing when the call came. He had every right to be irritated at being called out at night. If he ever was, he never showed it. You always felt relieved that everything was going to be all right as soon as he walked in the door, greeted you, opened his bag, and took out his stethoscope. There was a calming affect in his manner. I hope every medical student he mentored, developed that same, calming bedside manner.

Many times, he was called out to check on us kids too. Why people always seem to get sicker at night, when the doctor’s office is closed, is a mystery that may never be solved. In those days, you didn’t head for an urgent care facility or the emergency room to be treated, like many people do today.

“Doc” Bland went above and beyond the call of duty when I got hurt in high school football. My cousin, Lauren Ostrem, and I ended up in Dr. Bland’s office that evening. I had a broken leg and Lauren had a concussion. We were both well-taken care of that day by Dr. Bland, who was the team physician for the Westby High School football team for many years.

I spent several days in the Viroqua Hospital. Dr. Bland stopped by each day to check on me. He explained that I had a bad spiral fracture, had torn the ball out of the socket in my ankle, and also injured other muscles and tendons. I always like to do things up good! He constantly reassured me that I would be OK, but it was going to be a lengthy recuperation period. I’d be spending the next month or more on my back, in bed.

One night after I had been transferred home, Dr. Bland and Elmo Gulsvig, my high school principal and football coach, showed up at our farm. They had brought the game film from our last football game of the season to show me. With me lying in bed, they set up the projector and screen, and we all watched the game together, as they provided the commentary. That was way above and beyond the call of duty for both of them. That’s a house call I will always remember.

The last time Dr. Bland treated me, I had developed bursitis in my shoulder from overuse while canoeing. We were home visiting my folks one weekend and the pain had become intense. Dr. Bland made time to see me at his office. He gave me a cortisone injection in the shoulder joint and I never had problems or pain in that shoulder again.

I also remember the care and compassion he showed my mother in her final days as she suffered from emphysema, and struggled to breathe.

Our family, and most families in the Westby area, had a long history with Dr. Bland. I can’t even imagine the amount of house calls and interrupted evenings he must have had over the years.

Those days are gone. Times have changed. “Doc” Bland was a throwback to another time, when doctors in small towns and rural areas, were expected to make house calls. When I think of the inconvenience and sacrifice that must have placed on general practice, country doctors, I appreciate even more what they did for all of us.

The mental image of a doctor, like “Doc” Bland, walking into your house, with medical bag in hand; is like looking at an old Norman Rockwell painting. They are both treasures from a disappearing era.

Barn Owls, Swallows, and Haymows

2011-04-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #336

Another page in the changing world we live in involves barn owls and barn swallows. I’ve seen lots of barn swallows, but can’t remember seeing a barn owl in a barn. We had an abundance of pigeons roosting in the haymow of our barn, but never an owl. If they were around, they were certainly good at concealing themselves.

We were discussing the demise of old barns with some friends this week, and we wondered how this would impact the birds that used to make their homes in barns.

Barn owls will make their nests in hollow trees and birdhouses made especially for barn owls. You can buy pre-built houses or build one yourself. I noticed when I looked up the subject on the Internet, they also have houses for screech owls. I know we have them around, because we had one in our house when we were building it. We managed to capture it and released it unharmed. We now have a photo of that owl hanging near the peak of our four-season room, where he was sitting on the exposed rafters at the time. I think I’ll have to build a house for a screech owl and see if I get any renters.

Even though we don’t have an old barn near our house, we have plenty of barn swallows. When I mow the yard in the summertime, they constantly fly around the mower and dive bomb for moths, mosquitoes, and other insects kicked out of the grass as the mower approaches. Sometimes they come so close, I think they’re going to collide with me. I’ve seen dozens of them at a time around our house. They must build their nests in nearby structures.

When the old timber frame barn was still standing, there were several nests attached to the rafters in the ceiling. The top half of the double doors were always open in the summer and swallows had easy access to their nests. It was always fun to watch how they built the nests and then follow the progress of the eggs being laid, the feeding of the babies, and then learning to fly. Each spring swallows would return to the existing nests and I wondered if it was the same birds that returned or maybe one of the chicks that had been born and raised in that nest, returning home and becoming the new renter.

Even though barns are filled with hungry cats that would love to have a bird for lunch, the swallows weren’t sleeping when brains were assigned. They attach their nests to the sides of support beams right under the floor of the haymow. It’s safe and dry. Barn swallows are pretty darn smart. I always wondered how the little babies knew enough to stay in the nest and not start crawling around and fall out. It must have been very frustrating for the cats to sit under those nests and watch the birds flying in and out and not be able to do anything about it.

I mentioned the pigeons that occupied the haymow. Our old barn had a cupola on the roof. The pigeons could access it from inside the haymow. That’s where they had their nests and raised their young. When the haymow was full of bales, we could climb up into the cupola and see where the nests had been. In the spring when the haymow was almost empty, the only way to get up to the cupola was to climb up the hay rope. I did it one time, but found it was really a stupid thing to do. It was much higher when there was very little hay below you, and scary. I clung to that rope like my life depended on it, and it probably did. We’re lucky we didn’t fall and kill ourselves. I think those swallows living in the barn below me, had more brains and smarts than I did.

We also used that same hay rope to swing on. We’d climb up and stand on a crossbeam, take the rope in hand, launch ourselves out, and then let go and hopefully land in the loose hay we had piled up. We didn’t have a rope attached to a tree where we could swing over a body of water and then launch into the water. The haymow was our substitute, and I suspect the landings were much more painful. Unless you timed your release just right, you missed the middle of the pile. If there was a barn owl hiding somewhere in our haymow, he must have been shaking his head over our attempts at flight. At least it makes me feel better, knowing that many of you did those same exciting, but stupid things, in the haymow.

Now most haymows stand empty. Modern methods of putting up hay have changed and it would be hard for a kid to find a hay rope to swing from. Maybe that’s a good thing. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but most of us survived with minor injuries and lots of harrowing adventures to tell about.

Just as the barn owls and barn swallows have to adapt to the changing times and fewer barns, I have faith that young kids will still find new adventures to test themselves, and many memories to tell the next generation.

Call Me A Tree Hugger

2011-04-09T16:14:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #334

The trees were alive with the sound of birds singing as I walked down Sherpe Road this weekend. It was cool, but sunny, and they were enjoying the advent of warmer weather as much as I was. It made me sad to think that very soon I won’t see and hear any birds singing in those trees. There are major changes blowing in the wind.

All those trees that line both sides of Sherpe Road along Highway 14 will soon be gone. Construction, I call it destruction, of a four-lane highway between Westby and Viroqua has begun. A perfectly good two-lane highway connects the two cities now.

Almost everyone I’ve talked to says the four-lane is a big waste of money and not needed. We’re talking about a 4.5-mile stretch of new road that’s costing over 16 million dollars, and destroying many farms and homes to make way for the two extra lanes and a bike path along side the highway. It’s also destroying a lot of habitat for animals and birds.

As with all projects like this, and it could one day happen where you live, the only people affected are those along any new highway construction, who have lost their land and homes. No one else seems to care. That’s just the nature of the beast. When I’ve mentioned to people that all the trees along our road will be destroyed, a few have said, “They’re just trees, plant some new ones.”

Call me a tree hugger if you want, but I look at them in a different light. Those trees and brush are home to countless birds and wild critters. I don’t know when the cutting and destruction of the trees will begin, but I hope it’s before the birds lay their eggs, or the nests and eggs will be destroyed in the process. The poem, “Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer has the line, “A tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair,” applies to those trees. During my walks in the spring and summer, I’ve counted over twenty robins at a time, filling those trees and singing. It was a great nesting place for them and many types of other birds. It wasn’t unusual to see a deer and fawn come out of the trees and brush, stand and look at me for a while, and then head back into the safety and seclusion they found there. Those are encounters that only someone who loves nature can truly appreciate. They are simple pleasures and moments that you can’t buy.

In winter I’ve seen those trees bare, with each branch capped by a layer of snow; I’ve enjoyed watching them come alive again each spring; I’ve seen them decked out in their finest summer foliage; In the fall, I’ve watched them change into their coats of many colors; and I’ve marveled at the beauty of the entire lane, especially the pines, adorned with hoarfrost. Simple pleasures, available every season of the year, to anyone who seeks them out.

Among the trees are wild blackberry bushes and plum trees that will also be destroyed. Those plums made some really good jam.

Smith School, where I spent eight years, is already gone. That was in the way of the new highway too. It now lives only in the memories of those who received their education there. I remember walking to and from school when Highway 14 was being widened and straightened in the 1950s. A bunch of us neighbor kids would walk together each day and stop to play, in and on, the large culverts before they were put in place. We watched the large earthmovers carve openings through the hills to provide fill for the valleys to make the road level. It never occurred to me in my youth that in the construction there was also destruction. What must the Ostrem family that lived along the highway near us have felt, when their entire farm was destroyed to make way for the highway? Many of the trees that will now be destroyed are all that remain from that farm.

I mentioned that a bike path is being constructed alongside the highway. It’s too bad that someone didn’t have the foresight to make the old Milwaukee Road right-of-way a bike path when rail service to the area was abandoned. We used to walk the rails when I was young, and it would have been an absolutely scenic route with minor grades that could have gone from Viroqua, through Westby, down through Spring Coulee to Coon Valley, and down toward the Mississippi River. The other spur headed to Sparta and could have joined the Elroy-Sparta trail. It would have attracted bikers from all over Wisconsin and beyond as a scenic bike route. It would have been much better than biking along a four-lane highway. It’s going to be hard to stop and listen to the wind rustling through the trees with traffic whizzing by.

There’s a poem titled “Trees Against the Sky” by Robert William Service. Here is part of it: Trees, trees against the sky - O I have loved them well! There are pleasures you cannot buy, Treasures you cannot sell, And not the smallest of these, Is the gift and glory of trees…

Call me a tree hugger if you want, but in the story of my life, this is another page.

When Clothes Were American Made

2011-04-02T20:46:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #333

I recently saw a news report on TV about all the products that are now made in other countries. The reporter had a hard time finding any American made products. Clothes are just one example.

I remember when clothes weren’t made in other countries. They weren’t made in factories either. They were made right here in America, in most homes on the old treadle sewing machines. We had one that my mother and grandmother used, to make many items. I can’t ask my mother or grandmothers questions about those days, but my relative, Doreen (Roiland) Nienow was able to provide a lot of information for me. When I sit in the four-season porch, where I do most of my writing, I can see the farm where she grew up. Her grandfather was Syvert Sherpe, brother to my great-grandfather.

Doreen said that her mother, Alma Roiland, received her treadle sewing machine from her father, Syvert, before she was married. She made very good use of it for many different sewing projects. Alma ordered fabric and a pattern from the Montgomery Ward catalog and sewed her own wedding dress that she wore when she married Doreen’s father, Nels Roiland, at the Country Coon Prairie Lutheran Church.

That reminded me of the story Arvella Sorenson told us about her father sewing my great grandfather’s wedding suit from burlap feed sacks. I imagine they died the material black.

Doreen said her mother sewed most of the clothes that her brothers and sisters wore as children, including their Confirmation dresses. Her mother made many outfits for her from hand-me-down clothes belonging to her older sisters. She never minded, because she could re-style a dress and it would look like new. Her mother sewed many pretty aprons and trimmed them with bright rick-rack and bias tape.

She also mended clothing on her treadle machine, including sewing patches over holes in the knees of her father and brother’s overalls. There wasn’t a lot of money to spend on new clothes in those days, so the patches helped to extend the life of an overall. Nels kept his round box of Copenhagen snuff in the right rear pocket of his overalls and eventually a hole would develop, so Alma would sew a new pocket or a patch on the old one.

She taught Doreen how to use her machine and she’d sew clothes for her doll from scraps of calico fabrics left over from her mother’s quilting projects and from sewing other clothes. Doreen enjoyed looking into all the drawers of her sewing machine to find different colored threads and buttons of all shapes and colors.

Her father purchased chicken feed in muslin sacks, and also flour and sugar in muslin sacks. The empty sacks would be washed and bleached, and then opened up to make 30” x 30” pieces of fabric. Her mother hemmed all those clean sacks on her treadle sewing machine and they made excellent dish towels. That story brought back memories of my grandmother, Inga Sherpe, taking old feed sacks with colorful patterns, after they were empty of course, and making them into shirts and other items of clothing that we wore. Looking back, I never thought twice about wearing clothes made from feed sacks.

Doreen said one of her mother’s winter projects was to cut narrow strips from no longer worn dresses, aprons, shirts, and overalls, and sew them end to end and coordinate the different prints and colors. Then she wound up the strips to form a ball the size of a softball. She usually had several carry-all bags filled with the carpet rag balls by spring. Then her mother and father would drive to Viroqua and take them to a lady who had a loom. She made beautiful rag rugs in different lengths. They washed up beautifully and were so useful, besides being pretty.

The treadle machine was kept in the downstairs bedroom in front of the west window. When the cover of the machine was closed, it was a favorite napping place for one of the tame kittens that would spend the day in the house. Her mother placed a soft towel on top of the machine for the kitten’s bed. On sunny days, the kitten would take a nap in the warmth of the sunshine.

I was glad to hear that Doreen’s daughter, Joan, has inherited the ancestral treadle sewing machine, and it’s now in her home. Joan has fond memories of when she was a child and would go to visit her grandparents. Her grandmother would let Joan use the machine and give her scraps of pretty material so she could sew clothes for her doll. One of Joan’s daughters has already put in her request to inherit her great-grandmother’s treadle sewing machine some day. I always like hearing that an ancestral item is cherished and kept in the family. Doreen said her grandpa, Syvert Sherpe, would be happy to know that his gift to his daughter, Alma, would be so useful and treasured for many generations.

Yes, clothes used to be made in America, by Americans, who knew how to create just about anything with their hands and a treadle sewing machine. Our ancestors were talented, innovative, hard-working people. I take my hat, that’s now made in China, off to them!

My Brother, Wa Kanga Hoohega

2011-03-26T19:01:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #332

Two low-flying cranes flew directly over our house during the weekend. They were heading north. Every time I see a crane flying, I think of my friend, John Beaudin. He was a member of the Crane Clan.

I first met John at The Highground dedication of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial at Neillsville, Wisconsin, in September of 1988. He was a Chippewa and was to represent the Native Americans during the ceremony. John was dressed in his Native American outfit, complete with Eagle feathers and his grandfather’s Eagle feather bustle and war club. He looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a history book. We were behind the podium when I introduced myself and told him I’d let him know when he was to speak. As I watched him walking around, he had a regal presence and confidence in the way he carried himself.

After I unveiled the statue and talked about the design, he was to talk before the drummers began their warrior song. As John began speaking, the threatening rain finally arrived, and it poured. His notes on yellow legal paper turned to a garbled mess, but he continued speaking without the use of notes.

I was feeling bad about the rain spoiling our dedication. After he finished his portion of the program, I told him I was sorry the rain had ruined everything. He was smiling and his eyes seemed to glow with excitement. “This is wonderful he said,” lifting his face to the sky to let the rain fall on it. He then explained to me what the rain meant to him and to all the Native Americans present at the dedication that day.

“The Great Spirit and the Grandfathers made it rain. The power of the dedication, the power of the moment, had brought those loved ones left in Vietnam, Germany, Italy, Japan, Korea and other foreign countries back to view the dedication. And they had cried. Not tears of despair, not tears of hate for the sacrifice they made, but tears of joy that they would be remembered. Their tears had blessed and purified The Highground with their approval.”

John and I discovered that we lived within a few blocks of each other in Madison. That began a friendship that grew and lasted until the day he died from cancer at only 48 years of age.

John was a lawyer in Madison. It wasn’t easy being an advocate for “Indian’s” rights. He often found himself standing squarely in the center of problems between the Indians and whites. The spear fishing confrontations is just one example.

At the time of his death he was Chief Judge of the Lac Courte Oreillies Tribal Court. On his business card that he had me design, there’s a drawing of a crane flying into a circle that represented the circle of life. The crane was white within the circle and black outside the circle. We talked about nothing being entirely black and white, or red and white as he liked to say. Everything has some of the other within it, just like the Yin and Yang symbol from the Orient. In our talks I discovered many similarities in thinking and philosophy between Native American and Oriental teachings. Those are teachings that I had already embraced while studying martial arts.

The times I took him to University Hospital, while he was undergoing treatments for cancer, he seemed to be a favorite of everyone we met. I’d push him along in the wheelchair and staff would ask him how he was doing today. “Just great,” he’d reply with a big smile and then ask them how THEY were doing. He didn’t complain or show his fears to them, but voiced them to me in private. He didn’t want to die. There was too much to live for. He wanted to see his daughter, Kiana, grow up. I could only be there and listen. I couldn’t change anything.

One place he found comfort was in his spirituality. “Indian religion,” he called it. We often talked about our beliefs. I found his beliefs, that centered around nature, were very consistent with mine. The earth is sacred. Life is a circle, not straight lines. We both learned as we explored each others beliefs with an open mind. We also became closer friends.

John started calling me Ole Red Cloud, the Norwegian Indian. He’d introduce me to his friends as, “This is my brother, Ole Red Cloud.” They’d look at me and say, “Ole, that’s a strange name for an Indian.”

On April 4, 1993, just minutes into the new day, the Eagle picked John up and carried him across the water to join his ancestors. John Beaudin, Wa Kanga Hoohega (the Thunder of Many Voices), is dancing with the Ancestors now. He can ride the wings of the Crane any time he wants to return to The Highground, where he had me promise I’d spread his ashes on the dove mound. If you sit quietly and listen, his voice can be heard in the wind moving gently through the grass. You can feel him dancing on the dove mound as the wind caresses your face. You can hear him singing with all the other voices as the wind releases the music of the chimes. As long as the wind blows, the spirit of the Thunder of Many Voices will never be silenced.

The Sound of Running Water

2011-03-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

Across the Fence #331

I think it’s finally arriving. Spring is in the air. I heard it in the sound of running water. During my walk this evening, water was running in the ditches and flooding the low spots in the fields. It was nice to hear that sound again. It’s been a long winter. We still have huge piles of snow around our house and yard, but patches of brown are finally breaking through the white landscape of fields around us.

I notice it in the evenings too. It’s darker outside as we begin to lose our snow cover. Snow has a way of softening and lightening the landscape. Now those spreading dark patches, add to the darkness of the night. If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, take a walk outside in the evening and you’ll see. Although, by the time you read this, the snow may be all gone.

Over the weekend I went for what was probably my final trek on snowshoes for the winter. The snow is now crusted from the daily thawing and freezing temperatures. It wasn’t the usual quiet adventure across fields and through wooded areas. There was the constant crunching of snow with every step I took. I wasn’t about to sneak up on any wildlife this time for photo opportunities. It’s typical maple syrup making weather with freezing temperatures at night and mild, sap-running temps during the day.

This is late winter, early spring weather with all its contrasts. It’s a great time of year to get out and enjoy the many sights, sounds, and smells of nature in transition. Maybe I’ll take a pass on some of the smells. We’ll come back to that subject later.

What other time of year could you enjoy snowshoeing along snow-covered fence lines and hear water running through the ditches and streams from the snow melt? I also snowshoed around the pond that’s now full from the melted snow that runs down through the little valley behind the house. There was still a layer of ice from the recent cold nights, but I wouldn’t want to venture out on that ice. It looked pretty thin.

I remember when a bunch of us neighborhood farm boys would sweep the snow off the ice on cold winter days and play hockey on it. I think I’ve mentioned before that none of us had skates, and we didn’t have hockey sticks or a puck either. A tobacco lath with a shorter lath cut and nailed at an angle to one end, became our stick. It sort of looked like a hockey stick. I don’t remember what we used for a puck. We could have used a frozen cow pie, but that would have been too big! I guess we just shuffled around the ice in our four-buckle boots and tried to keep from falling down, while trying to hit whatever the puck was, past the goalie. By the way, we didn’t have a net either. I think we just built a couple piles of snow and tried to shoot the puck between the piles. It was simple, inexpensive fun. Although I don’t think Dad would have been very happy with those broken tobacco laths at ten cents each.

I wish the pond would hold water year-round like it did in the past. It seems to have turned into a sinkhole and the water quickly disappears. A dried up water supply doesn’t help keep the deer and other wildlife around. When I was young, I don’t remember the pond ever running dry, except if there was a very dry summer.

Another thing that concerns me is that manure could run off the surrounding fields and into the pond. Where does that water that’s disappearing end up?

Speaking of manure, as I was walking past the old barnyard this evening, the smell I mentioned earlier brought back thoughts about hauling out manure in the spring. This time of year, there would be a huge manure pile behind the barn where we had been dumping and stockpiling it all winter when Dad couldn’t get in the fields.

When the pile thawed out in the spring it was time to haul it out to the fields and spread it for fertilizer. We loaded it, one pitchfork at a time, into the manure spreader. We got to help after school and on weekends. Dad didn’t get a manure loader on the tractor until I had headed off to college. I guess he had a manure loader before that time—I just wasn’t mounted on the tractor.

Things sure have changed since those days when most jobs were done by hand. Tractors and all the attachments certainly changed farming. It’s no wonder the farmers were so strong and in such good shape. No one had to head for a health club at the end of the day, and pay a membership fee, to get their exercise. They just wanted to sit down and rest after working 14-16 hour days. When I think of all the physical labor people once had to do, not that many years ago, it’s a wonder they had time to do anything except work. They didn’t have to worry about losing weight either.

Those are some of the memories that running water from the melting snow triggers, as it sloshes through the recesses in my mind.

Her Irish Eyes Are Smiling

2011-03-12T17:08:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #330

This old Norwegian-American wishes a Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all of you who have Irish blood coursing through your veins. It’s time to put the lutefisk and lefse away for a day and break out the corned beef and cabbage.

I won’t be drinking any green beer, but I will be partaking of a corned beef and cabbage meal. I think it’s a safe bet that most of us who had ancestors along the western coast of Norway, have a wee bit of Irish blood and have a bunch of Irish genes. It’s a historical fact that our Viking ancestors established several major Irish cities, including Dublin, Cork, Waterford, and Limerick. DNA studies have shown that 30 to 40 percent of the people in many regions of Ireland have Viking ancestry. Also, many an Irish lass ended up back in Norway after the Vikings “toured” Ireland. So, not only can we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, but the Irish can celebrate Syttende Mai too. Norskies and the Irish have the best of both worlds.

As many of you know, I’ve done a lot of research on our family roots over the years. I know it doesn’t seem very important to some people, But I think knowing your roots gives you a better sense of who you are. We’re a part of all those who came before us. That includes the good, the bad, and the ugly. Every family tree has some ancestors of dubious character and skeletons hanging in it.

There’s a new television show on Friday nights called “Who Do You Think You Are?” We’ve found it a fascinating show, as it follows celebrities on their journey as they track down their ancestors. I always find it hard to understand how so few people can name their great grandparents and know nothing about their lives. If you’re ever feeling like you’re pretty important and the world couldn’t function without you, just remember, in one hundred years, most of your direct descendents won’t even remember your name, let alone what you did while you were here! That’s an interesting and humbling thought, isn’t it? That’s why I always encourage people to tell or write down their stories. Don’t take them to the grave with you. I wish my grandparents and great grandparents had left a written record of their lives. It would be priceless to those of us who delve into family history.

The study of history is important to me. Perhaps that’s one reason I’ve traced our family back through history for hundreds of years on both my mother and father’s sides. All my ancestry lines go back to Norway. All my great grandparents were born in Norway.

I’ve also done some research on Linda’s family. We have some information on her father’s side, but we knew nothing about her mother’s ancestry. That side of the tree was as bare as a winter tree. Linda suspected her mother had some Irish roots, but couldn’t prove it. She and her brothers have always loved Irish music and have had a strong attachment for all things Irish.

Over the weekend we decided to see what we could find. Using Ancestry.com, I put in the available information about her mother and within half an hour I had traced her family back to Tipperary, Ireland, where Linda’s great, great grandparents were born. Linda was excited. We had found her Irish roots.

Her ancestors were among the million people who left Ireland during the great potato famine between 1845 and 1852. During the famine approximately one million people died from starvation because most of the potato crop was destroyed by the potato blight. Linda’s ancestors were among the lucky ones who made it to America to start a new life. There again, I wish we had a written story of the trials and tribulations they went through. It must have been a very hard time. Their lives are important in the history of our family and it would be nice to know more about them—the great, great, great grandparents of our children.

As I searched the records on Ancestry.com, and followed Linda’s maternal ancestry lines, back through time, I also came across several Norwegian ancestors. Uff da, now that she knows she has both Irish and Norwegian blood, she’s going to be hard to live with. You know what they say, “You can always tell an Irishman, but you can’t tell them much.” Or maybe that was a Norwegian that you can’t tell much. Either way, I’m in trouble now!

After just a few hours of researching her mother’s family on-line, we’re back to the 1500’s in some lines. It’s amazing what information is available on the Internet. It truly does connect the world together. I call it the Cosmic Connection.

We now have names, birth and death dates, places of birth, and a few other details about Linda’s ancestors, but we don’t have any stories about their lives. Names and dates are nice to have, but as they say, it’s the dash between the numbers that makes them come to life. I’ll keep searching for the dash. No one is going to be forgotten as long as I’m above ground.

It was great to find those Irish roots for Linda and our family. Her Irish eyes are smiling. Break out the corned beef and cabbage!

The Train of Life Waits for Nobody

2011-03-05T07:14:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #329

What does the future hold for the way we communicate with each other? Is there anyone out there who doesn’t think that everything is changing? Can you hear me? Can you see me?

The way we communicate with each other has changed dramatically during my lifetime. Crank phones, party lines, rotary phones, and push button phones, have either disappeared or are going the way of the telegraph and smoke signals.

We’re becoming a very mobile, video-based society. Cell phones, text messaging, Facebook, Skype, Twitter, and numerous other applications are the way young people communicate today. The younger generation prefers text messaging over voice communication. People are no longer tied to their home or office to send and receive messages. They take their communication devices with them wherever they go.

As I write this column, I’m on an airplane headed back home from Dallas, Texas. I’ve spent the past week there at the National Telecommunications Cooperative Association (NTCA) Conference and Expo. I have my cell phone and my computer within reach. Others traveling with me, have their iPhones, Droids, and iPads. On these devices we can check our messages, e-mails, send messages, and continue to conduct business, even while flying from Dallas to Minneapolis.

In many ways this is a double-edged sword. It’s handy and a great way to stay in touch and up to date, but on the other hand, it’s very hard to get totally away from work.

At the conference we learned how much and how rapidly the world of communications is changing. It’s both exciting and scary. People will need to jump on board and embrace the changes or be left behind. I know all the changes are very scary for many people, but there’s no turning back the clock to what we call those simpler times that many of us remember.

I can’t even imagine the changes that will take place in the next few years. Listen to these quotes regarding telephones, radios, and computers.

“Well-informed people know it’s impossible to transmit their voices over wires, and even if it were possible, the thing would not have practical value.” – Editorial in the Boston Post, 1865.

“I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.” – Thomas Watson, Chairman of IBM, 1943.

“There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home.” – Ken Olson, President, Chairman, and Founder of Digital Equipment Corporation, 1977.

It’s hard to believe, that these people in leadership positions didn’t see any market for these technological inventions. Look how far computers have come since that statement in 1977—only 34 years ago. Besides everything else computers can do, they’re now capable of hearing and speaking too. With Skype you can now communicate with people all over the world and see each other as you talk. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Yes I can, loud and clear.

The technology curve has become so steep and fast that it’s hard to imagine the changes we’ll see in just the next five years. During the conference, we heard about some of the changes coming that boggle my mind. Have you heard about flexible video screens? Google it!

We also learned that you either change with the times, or you will cease to exist. I’ve seen that time and again since I graduated with a commercial art degree a lifetime ago. Everything has changed. As the business of advertising kept changing, I had two choices, either accept the changes and climb aboard, or live in the past and let the train of changing technology go on without me. With each change, I decided to hang on for dear life and keep riding. It hasn’t been easy. The computer age was another two-edged sword. I learned to do graphic arts on a computer while flying by the seat of my pants—a major uff da. It was either learn it or get out of the business.

I’m reminded of a friend who was badly wounded in Vietnam. He spent a couple years in hospitals recuperating. At one time he was so weak he couldn’t lift a five-pound weight. He’d given up and wanted to die. One day an old army nurse was trying to get him to do his therapy. He just lay in his hospital bed and wouldn’t cooperate. The nurse finally stepped back, gave his bed a swift kick and yelled at him, “The train of life waits for nobody. If you want to just lie there and die, go ahead! I’ve got a lot of people on this ward who want to live and they need my help.” She turned on her heels and left him lying there. That moment was the turning point for him. He decided he wanted to get back on the train of life. He’d show her. He learned to adapt and wasn’t left behind.

When you have trouble mastering that remote for your TV, just think of all the changes you’ve seen in your life and how you’ve adapted. There’s always hope, and change can be exciting. We can have fun remembering and talking about the past, but we need to live in the present, and look to the future. It’s going to be an exciting ride!

There's More To Fishing Than Fish

2011-02-26T16:51:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #328

I just returned from spending six days at a conference in Dallas, Texas. It was sunny and the temperature was in the 70’s each day. Now I’m back in Wisconsin and we’re in the middle of a major winter storm. I’m ready to cry “Uncle.” Like most of you, I’ve had enough of winter and don’t want to think about it any more. I’m ready for nice, spring weather, not snow, freezing rain, ice, and cold weather.

It’s time to start thinking about the early trout season and my thoughts are turning to fishing. There’s more to becoming a fisherman than just dropping your line in the water and catching fish.

Henry David Thoreau said, “Such is oftenest the young man's introduction to the forest, and the most original part of himself. He goes thither at first as a hunter and fisher, until at last, if he has the seeds of a better life in him, he distinguishes his proper objects, as a poet or naturalist it may be, and leaves the gun and fish-pole behind.”

There is truth in those words. A young boy is usually introduced to the woods and streams as a hunter and fisherman, generally tagging along with his father to learn the ways of being a part of the natural world around us. Such was my introduction to hunting, fishing, and spending time enjoying the outdoors. I still take a fishing pole with me when I go fishing, but catching fish is just one aspect of fishing when a person becomes a poet (writer) or naturalist, as Thoreau says.

I remember Sunday family picnics along the banks of a stream running through the Kickapoo Valley near Bloomingdale and Avalanche. They were Hanson family outings that included my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and the Hanson cousins.

Blankets were spread on the grass and picnic baskets, full to overflowing with food, were carried from the cars that had been parked alongside the winding country road.

The women sat on the blankets talking and unpacking the food while the men brought out the fishing gear and headed for the bank of the creek. Most of us kids followed close behind. A red and white bobber was attached to the line and a wiggling earthworm was retrieved from a coffee can filled with dirt. The men would impale the struggling worm on a simple hook at the end of the line attached to an old cane pole for each of us kids. They would even put the line in the water before finally handing the pole to us.

We would sit quietly on the bank, hanging onto the pole for dear life in case a monster fish would suddenly strike. We kept our eyes on the bobber as it floated undisturbed on the surface of the water with nary a ripple and no tug from a monster fish.

We sat and waited, and waited, and waited. The anticipation of our bobber suddenly disappearing, eventually gave way to boredom and we soon left our cane poles in the grass and went off exploring along the creek or playing catch. Youngsters are usually short on the patience needed for fishing.

The men would remain seated along the bank, pretending to fish, while discussing the problems of farming and the world in general. Maybe I should have called this column “Beside the Creek” instead of “Across the Fence.” Many stories were told and much information was exchanged on those leisurely Sunday afternoon picnics alongside the meandering creek. I don’t recall many fish being caught, but perhaps that wasn’t the real purpose of fishing after all. Those quiet, peaceful moments along the bank of the creek, with the sound of the water winding its way among the rocks, was music for the soul. This was something the men understood but us youngsters had yet to discover it.

As we got older, our fishing trips were to the Mississippi River. On those rare summer days when there was a lull in the workload on the farm, dad would take us with when he went fishing. We helped him dig worms while ma packed a lunch for us. After stowing the fishing gear, worms, lunch, life preservers, and outboard motor in the trunk of the car, we headed for Genoa, about half an hour away. Our first stop was at the general store in Romance to buy soda and a candy bar, which was always a treat. Of course dad had to check out the fishing gear and usually bought another lure that was sure to catch the big one. Next stop was the Blask Brothers near Genoa, where we rented a boat for the day. We spent some memorable days, fishing on the mighty Mississippi.

When I got older, I accompanied dad and his fishing buddies on trips to Hayward and Canada in search of trophy Muskies, Northerns, and Walleyes. That’s when I began to understand that fishing is much more than catching fish. It’s when Thoreau’s words began to make sense to me.

Now I prowl the streams of Vernon County in search of trout. Fishing has become just one part of the total outdoor experience. The sights, sounds, and smells of nature make the experience complete. The quiet solitude found along a trout stream is good for the soul, as we become one with nature.

February Snapshots In Words

2011-02-19T18:52:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #327

Many images and memories come drifting back through the bitterly cold days and nights of February as we look ahead and wait for spring to arrive. February is that ugly duckling of a month, when you’ve had enough of the cold weather and the mountains of snow. The only thing that will transform that ugly duckling into a beautiful swan is warm weather.

Until that time, here are a few snapshots of February, in words, that I hope will develop into pictures in your mind.

My cousin, Ron Hanson said, “The snow sounds like styrofoam under my feet. I’m stoking the woodburners like the boiler room on the Titanic. It’s a three dog night and all I’ve got are chihuahuas. Brrr!”

The past few days have definitely been three dog nights. I think we could have used a fourth dog here in Sherpeland, where the wind chill took your breath away.

Here’s another snapshot as the dawn arrives after one of those cold nights. The night sky grows brighter, giving way to the dawn, silhouetting the dark, bare branches against the soft light rising in the east. White smoke curls upward from a neighboring chimney, giving assurance of the warmth and life huddled safely inside on a cold, crisp winter morning. There are still no outward sounds or signs of life. It’s too early for birds and squirrels to venture forth and brave the cold in search of food. The sky turns slowly brighter; shades of yellow-gold now paint the horizon. There’s a flutter of wings through the cold, still air. The first Mourning Dove arrives at the feeder. A squirrel follows close behind to get first chance at the fresh ear of corn. In the quiet stillness of the morning they eat side by side, undisturbed by the crowds that will soon join them. A light pops on in a distant house, giving evidence of life arising. The swirling smoke reaches up and joins with the rising of the dawn. A new day is here and the world is slowly awakening.

When the Westby Snowflake Ski Jumping Tournament is held in February each year, it brings back snapshot memories of my attempts at flying through the air.

Jumping, cross-country, and downhill, are types of skiing, all perfected by Norwegians to a fine art. I can’t say that this Norwegian-American has perfected any of them, but I’ve tried them all.

I got my first pair of skis around the age of six or seven. They were simple wood skis with a strap that dad cut from a piece of inner tube. Our ski boots were our four buckle overshoes. Ski poles consisted of tobacco lathes. Not exactly high tech equipment, but we thought we were pretty hotshot skiers!

We’d ski through the fields and small rolling hills on our prairie farm. No one would ever mistake them for mountains. Neighbor friends would ski with us. We built a jump near the bottom of the hill in one of the back pastures. After packing the snow down on the hill, we got into our finest racing tuck, headed down the in-run, hit the takeoff and flew... four or five feet! Sometimes, we barely cleared the jump. Other times we jumped right out of our skis. It’s hard to jump when you don’t have the proper bindings to hold your skis on!

One year, we got new skis with real bindings for Christmas. We were king of the hill. They were more like cross-country skis, but we used them for jumping, because, coming from Westby, that’s what we thought skis were for.

We built a scaffold with Trygve and Joel Thompson on Birch Hill, located on their farm. It stood about eight feet high, with a ladder to reach the platform on top. We positioned it at the top of a hill where there was a clearing between the trees. I might add, the clearing wasn’t straight, but had a curve near the bottom! We packed the scaffold with snow and built a takeoff halfway down the hill. I think we “flew” about twenty feet on our Birch Hill ski jump, and with real bindings, our skis stayed on our feet! However, points for style were few! We had a lot of fun, but it was probably a lot more dangerous than if we had jumped on a hill designed for jumping.

Another February snapshot in my mind is of the frozen stock tank during the winter. Our milking cows were kept in the barn all winter. However, the heifers were outside and drank from the stock tank. We had to chop a hole in the ice with an axe each morning so they could get to the water. We should have thrown a few fish in the tank and we could have gone ice fishing too.

Time keeps marching on and by the time you read this, hopefully the sub-zero February weather will be a distant memory, and our three dog nights will have turned into one dog nights. Looking back, it won’t seem nearly as bad as it was while we were in the middle of it. Yes, most of us griped about it at the time, but once milder temperatures prevail, we’ll hold bragging rites for years to come as we tell anyone who’ll listen, how we survived the frigid February temperatures of 2011.

Lights Are Still On In Our Memories

2011-02-14T18:01:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #326

“The lights may have gone out in the old farm house where you lived, but not in your memories.” That sentiment came from a reader in Minnesota, after reading my story several weeks ago about how the lights have gone out in so many houses and barns around the countryside.

I think all writers sometimes wonder if anyone reads their columns. My friend, David Giffey, even made that statement in a recent column. We know some people are reading them when we hear from people that don’t agree with or like something we say, but we seldom hear from those who like what we write. The lights out story seems to have struck an emotional chord with many people. I’ve received many e-mails and even telephone calls. I appreciate hearing from all of you.

Jim in Cassville, expressed what many of you felt, “I so wish my boys could have had those wonderful experiences that I did. I’m sure that nothing has shaped my life more than growing up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. You are so right in describing the warm glow in the kitchen as we would walk up from the barn on a dark January night, stopping to carry an armload of wood while on our way in.”

A man who grew up on an Iowa farm and now lives in Florida wrote, “Some stories hit me hard with an emotional impact, and this is one of them. What particularly gripped me was the line about leaving the barn after the night milking and walking toward the light in the kitchen window where supper was being prepared and looking up at the bright stars on a cold, cloudless night. Your writing can be so poetic that it just grabs the reader.”

Another reader in Texas said, “This week’s writing brought a lump in my throat! It is beautiful, indeed! We are lucky to have had a farm background for our journey on Spaceship Earth!”

From the Madison area, “You hit a home run — great piece of writing.” Krissy in Colorado wrote, “What a special place the farm has in my heart... your mom’s warm heart made it ‘home.’ Oh what I would give to have just a few moments back there, on a balmy summer evening, sitting around the table with all of us together again... your writing is the next best thing!”

From Louann in Illinois, “When I drive in the pre-dawn or evening hours, I’m always comforted by the lit windows on barns. Sometimes, it’s the windows of a horse farm where someone is doing morning chores; however, more often, the barns are filled with cows waiting their turn, cats meandering around the aisle, and the CHUH-chuh-CHUH-chuh sound of the milking machines drowning out the radio’s morning news. I know this without having to set foot on the premises. It makes me feel as if all’s right in the world.”

A man from Highland found my number and called one night to talk about the story. We had a wonderful visit.

This story reinforces what I’ve always felt–our rural, farm background roots run very deep. Many people left the farm after graduating from high school to pursue fields other than farm fields, but it’s so true, you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. That goes for girls too. The lights may have gone out in the buildings many of us once lived and worked in, but they still shine brightly in our memories.

I’m glad that our kids have a connection to the land and farm also. They always enjoyed their visits with “Grandma and Grandpa Farm,” as they called them when they were young. They got to help in the barn with feeding the cows, played with the kittens in the haymow, climbed in the maple trees, helped drive the John Deere tractor, and walked with us while we explored the back forty and pond. Amy even got to help grandma make cherry pies in the old farm kitchen. When we built our house on a corner of the back forty, Erik remembered riding on the tractor with grandpa in that field. They have many good memories from those visits to the farm when they were young. I think those visits helped instill in them a love and appreciation of nature and the outdoors.

I think Ben Logan said it best in The Land Remembers. “Once you have lived on the land, been a partner with its moods, secrets, and seasons, you cannot leave. The living land remembers, touching you in unguarded moments, saying, ‘I am here. You are a part of me.’ When this happens to me, I go home again, in mind or in person…”

I can certainly relate to those words. I know many of you can too. The land is a part of us and if we can’t go back there in person, we can still go back there in our mind.

Many of the buildings where I spent time are gone. The big maple trees that we climbed in are gone. The shanty where we had our Prairie Ghost meetings is gone. But in our mind, you and I can still visit all the places we once frequented. We have the best of both worlds — the past and the present.

February Was A Special Month

2011-02-05T19:47:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #325

When I was in grade school, attending a one-room country school, February was always a special month. A glance at the February calendar shows four important events; Groundhog Day on the 2nd, Lincoln’s birthday on the 12th, Valentine’s Day on the 14th, and Washington’s birthday on the 22nd. It also lists President’s Day on Monday the 21st, but I don’t count that one. That’s a 3-day weekend for federal employees and doesn’t affect me, except that I don’t find any junk mail and bills in my mailbox that day. I don’t remember that we paid much attention to Groundhog Day when I was a kid, but some of my friends may remember otherwise. If so, let me know.

It seems like we have a bunch of 3-day holidays now that we never had when I was young. It wouldn’t have made much difference because all the farm families had seven-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year jobs. Holidays didn’t mean much, when you still had to work.

Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays probably don’t mean much unless you’re in the AARP card-carrying age bracket. I remember their birthdays as being special when I was in grade school. I think every school had a framed picture of Washington and Lincoln hanging on the front wall of the school. I know we did at Smith School.

I also remember cutting out black silhouettes of them. I don’t remember what we did with all those cutouts, but making them helped us become more familiar with them and what they had done for our country. We also learned that Washington told the truth after he had cut down the cherry tree. I don’t know if that was a true story or just part of folklore, but it was a good story with a moral for us young kids — never tell a lie.

We learned that Lincoln was born in a log cabin, was very poor, and would walk many miles to borrow a book and read it by the light from the fireplace because he had a thirst for knowledge. It didn’t occur to me at the time, that a lot of people were born in log cabins during that period. What registered was that even a poor boy from the country could grow up to be president. Those were valuable lessons for us young kids to learn.

I suspect that in this technology age, those qualities don’t impress kids today as much as they impressed us back in the 50s, the 1950s—not the 1850s. When I was in school, their birthdays were important events each year. One was considered the father of our country and the other had saved the Union and freed the slaves. Those are monumental events in the history of our country.

Sandwiched between their birthdays was Valentine’s Day. That was a day of anticipation and suspense. Yes, suspense, as we anxiously looked through the valentines that had been dropped into our hand-decorated box, to see what message would be found on the cards from certain people. At least we didn’t have to suffer like poor Charlie Brown each year as he went to the mailbox and always found it empty. Our teachers made sure that each student had a card for each student in school. In our case, that meant around twenty cards each year.

Sometimes we made the valentines that we gave to each other, although we must have given store-bought cards some years, because I remember my mother buying a package of the cutout cards for David and me to hand out. Janet and Arden, my younger sister and brother, weren’t in school yet when I was at Smith. I imagine we had to pick out and sign the card for each person, but I don’t remember. Maybe Valentine’s Day was such a traumatic time for me that I’ve shut it out of my memory bank! I would think that I picked out or made a special card for certain girls.

Corrine Fredrickson, my teacher at Smith for three years, said “Valentine’s Day was a day when the mothers came to school in the afternoon! You kids helped me serve them coffee and a treat, so for once, they could just come, enjoy themselves, and not have to bring something for a treat. Valentine’s Day meant ‘spring is nearly here!’ The hours of daylight were getting longer. It was a delightful time of year! Kids made most of the valentines that they gave to each other. As kids looked at their cards, the smiles on some faces could tell which boy or girl was special to them, but no one was mean, and nobody sent nasty valentines; nobody was left out.”

Those were special times when we attended our one-room country school, and February was a special month, even though it was the shortest month. We realized when we had our reunion last summer that we were like one big family in those small schools. I have many good memories from those days, and I credit that to the wonderful people and neighbors that I went to school with.

February—when we learned about a rodent predicting how much longer winter would be; honesty from George Washington, that a poor kid can become president from Abe Lincoln; and expressing feelings from our heart on Valentine’s Day. February is truly a special month.

I Think I Have Winter Brain Freeze

2011-01-29T15:13:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #324

The sun is sinking, as fast as the temperature, on another frigid day in the Frozen Tundra. We’re trapped in a bitter cold spell that seems to make a week-long appearance every January. It’s as welcome as a visitor knocking at your door with bad news or the arrival of a plague epidemic.

How cold was it lately? It was so cold I had to thaw my thoughts out before I could see what I was thinking, so I could write this column. We hit 21 below zero the other morning here in Sherpeland. That was the real temperature, not the wind chill. I don’t even want to know what that was. Last night it was ten below. To put it in simple terms, it’s darn cold. I imagine most of you are enjoying it as much as I am.

Last night the air was still and everything was quiet. Not even a branch was moving in the grove of trees near the house. No birds or wildlife were stirring as the sun was setting. I hope they all found some shelter to spend the night. This weather is hard on our feathered friends. It’s costing me a small fortune in birdseed to keep them fed.

My mother liked to say that we shouldn’t worry about things because God will take care of us. She was referring to a Bible verse: “Consider the ravens (birds) of the field, for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have storehouse or barn; and God feedeth them; How much more are ye better than the fowls?” It was her way of saying, “Don’t spend all your time worrying about things. If he watches out for the tiny birds, he’ll surely watch out for you.”

While I was feeding the birds that feed in our backyard and at the feeder in the grove of trees, I remembered her words. Those words don’t say how the birds would be fed. I think the answer to that question is that he has me feed the birds — at least around our place. That way the little critters have enough energy to stay warm and not freeze to death.

As most of you should know by now, I like to question and examine everything, and ask probing questions. I don’t take everything I read as gospel. I’m always looking for the rest of the story. Knowing what I know now, and have observed about life and death, I find the words about birds being fed an oversimplification of a complex situation. I have to ask the question, what about the estimated 100,000 people around the world that starve to death every day because they don’t have enough to eat? Who’s watching out for them?

Those are things I think and wonder about, even during hot weather, but this cold weather seems to magnify the questions in my mind. I guess you could say this frigid weather has caused me to experience brain freeze. That’s like when you come in from outside and your glasses fog over so you can’t see a thing until they clear up. It’s an accepted part of life in the Frozen Tundra.

I got a kick out of the news broadcasts today. They were telling about the frigid weather they were experiencing along the east coast. The temperatures were slightly below zero in some places, and it was as if life had come to a standstill because it was too cold to do anything. Welcome to our world.

Here in the upper Midwest, we wear our ability to withstand cold weather like a badge of courage. Its business as usual on those below zero days. We just add more layers of clothes, pull our stocking cap down over our ears, put on a facemask if it’s really cold, and make sure we have a pair of jumper cables in the car. We’re prepared, even if we don’t like this kind of weather.

Just as the birds near us know that food will be provided for them, we know that longer daylight hours and warmer weather will eventually arrive. The blanket of snow and ice will be slowly stripped away and new life will emerge. Before you know it, people will be complaining about the heat and humidity. As for me, I’ll take the heat any day. You can only put on so many layers of clothing to stay warm, before it gets hard to move around because you’re so restricted in all those clothes. On the positive side, all those layers can hide extra pounds and sagging bodies. That’s a lot harder to hide in hot weather.

When it gets hot out, I can always strip down to nothing but a pair of shorts, sit in the shade, listen to the wonderful sound of the wind blowing through the leaves, and let the cool breeze that always whips across the prairie, cool me off. It’s the same breeze that brings 35 below wind chill readings in January. Somehow that breeze feels a lot more comfortable and welcome in July. Let that be a lesson to all of us. What is negative in one situation can be a positive in another situation.

As for now, I’ll bundle up, kick back in my recliner, let my brain thaw out, and dream of those warm, summer days that will be here before we know it.

Winter: Bundle Up and Tunnel In

2011-01-23T07:10:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #323

We’re only into the second half of January, and winter has already worn out its welcome. The snow, ice, bone-chilling cold, and slippery roads, can head south any day now.

It looks like our winter weather even got sick of staying in the north this year and took a trip south. They’ve had a real taste of winter down there. The snowbirds who fly the coop each winter, and abandon us in the Frozen Tundra, couldn’t hide from Old Man Winter this year.

I guess all the drifting that takes place around our house, makes the winter seem even worse. We’re located on a high point where the wind gets a good run at us from every direction and deposits big drifts all around the house and driveway. If I were a kid again, I’d love those big piles of snow and look at them as great places to dig snow caves and tunnels. I’d grab a shovel and get to work. But at my age, digging a snow cave, for any reason other than to use as a survival shelter, would make our neighbors and friends think I should be committed to a facility with padded walls.

I remember some of the wonderful snow caves and tunnels we dug at Smith School. We spent hours getting cold and wet as we built them. We never worried about snow collapsing on us. When you’re young you don’t think about the dangers involved in an activity. If they collapsed we simply turned the caves into snow forts and the tunnels into connecting trenches to use during our snowball fights.

We usually chose up sides for our armies. It seems like we spent days erecting elaborate forts, complete with gun ports to peek out of. Those holes didn’t do us much good because we had snowballs, not guns, and it was impossible to throw a snowball out through our gun ports from the inside. The only way to fire a snowball was to stick your head above the walls of the fort and expose yourself to a barrage of incoming fire.

The problem was, those gun ports were just big enough for an incoming snowball to smash through. If someone was extremely lucky with a throw, they might hit someone in the face as they looked through the hole. The thrower would always claim to have aimed at the hole, but none of us were expert marksmen of that caliber, and any hits were pure luck.

Before our battles began, we’d make and stockpile a large quantity of snowballs. You didn’t want to run out of ammunition in the middle of a fight if the other side charged your fort. If you had enough snowballs you could usually stop the charge and force them to retreat back to their fort.

Some years when the drifts were especially deep, we’d dig a tunnel from inside our fort and try to exit some place behind the opposing fort. We made snowballs and fortified our fort with the snow we scooped out of the tunnel. When recess was over, we’d cover the entrance of our tunnel, so the other side couldn’t find it. I don’t think we ever completed one of those tunnels. They usually caved in before we got very far.

If we had spent half the time and effort on our studies as we did building snow forts and digging tunnels, we’d have all been Rhodes scholars. On second thought, maybe that’s how we had a couple high school Valedictorians come out of our school. It must have been the work ethic they learned building snow caves and tunnels. I think we had more fun building tunnels and forts than having snowball fights when they were finished.

The unfortunate thing about snowball fights, like any fight, someone usually gets hurt. Those stockpiles of snowballs often became ice balls by the time we got around to using them. I was “wounded” one time when I took a direct hit from an ice ball, squarely in the groin. I rolled in the snow in the fetal position, in total agony, holding a part of my anatomy that shall go unmentioned, as my life passed before my eyes. I think that incident kept my voice from getting deeper for at least a couple years. The pain seemed to last that long too. I never did find out who threw that snowball.

Despite the pain, wet clothes, and frozen cheeks and fingers, that usually accompanied playing in the snow, it never seemed to deter or bother us. I guess winter is really meant for kids to have fun in. As we get older we tend to lose the playfulness that accompanies snow and winter weather. We get bogged down with the negatives of trying to cope with snow and cold weather, and forget all the positives that were there when we were young.

I haven’t helped make snow forts and tunnels since our kids were young. I think I had as much fun as they did. I’m still tempted to build a snowman when the snow is just right. I may even build another Viking ship like the one I built with the kids in Madison. If you drive out Sherpe Road one day and see a Viking ship made out of snow in our yard, you’ll know I’m ready for that padded cell.

Smells Are Fuels for Time Travel

2011-01-15T21:11:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #322

It’s time to talk about smells again. I once read that smells are one of the main triggers to memories. How true that is for me. We’ve all experienced this. It’s like a time machine powered by smells. Take a moment and try to remember some smells that have transported you back to another time and place.

The warm smell of fresh apple pie or chocolate chip cookies, fresh from the oven, takes me back to the kitchen of the old farmhouse where I grew up. I can see Ma and Grandma Inga with their aprons on, opening the oven door to check the progress of the pie and the wonderful aroma filling the room. I see Ma placing chocolate chip cookies and date-filled cookies on the kitchen counter to cool off, and me getting to sample one, still warm from the oven. It was hard to tell if they were any good eating just one, so I’d beg to have a second one. Can’t you just smell and taste those cookies based on your own memories of similar experiences in your life?

I was reminded of this when we received a package of chocolate chip cookies from Alice (Sherpe) Parish, who lives in Arizona. Alice sends them to us every year around Christmas time. She remembers how my mother had sent me a box filled with chocolate chip cookies for Christmas when I was in Vietnam. It took forever for those cookies to arrive, but when they did, they didn’t last long. I shared them with my buddies and they tasted better than any cookies I’d ever eaten, even if they were rather hard from being in transit for so long. We didn’t have microwave ovens to heat things up in those days. But, there was always C-ration coffee to dunk a cookie in.

It’s great to still receive a package of cookies at Christmas, thanks to Alice. She’s even thoughtful enough to include some cookies for Linda, made with Splenda. Alice said she still thinks of my mother sending cookies to me as she bakes them each year. Now when I think of chocolate chip cookies, I think of both Ma and Alice. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that Linda and our daughter, Amy, also make darn good cookies.

There are many farm smells that take me back in time. The smell of fermented silage finds me up in the silo on a cold, winter day. Each fork-full of silage I throw down the silo chute releases the sweet-smelling silage. When David Torgerson and I were talking one day, he reminded me that I haven’t mentioned those frozen silage ledges. Everyone who has worked in a silo in the winter, knows how it would freeze around the outside edge. Sometimes it would be many inches thick and you had to chop at it with a pick-axe. Sparks would fly as the axe banged against the silo blocks. You ended up with heavy, frozen chunks that would bang against the sides of the chute as you tossed them down. The cows never seemed to mind if it was frozen. They always ate everything up.

Of course there’s also the sickening smell of fermented silage when you got down to the bottom of the silo pit in the spring. That was not a good smell! Not all smells bring back good memories.

How do we distinguish between good and bad smells? I read some research that mice and humans both have about 1,000 sensors in their noses. Who sits around and counts these sensors? We do have the upper hand on the evolutionary scale over mice though. Humans can identify 10,000 odors, whereas the lowly mouse can only identify 5,000. Again my question is, how does the mouse tell the researcher it can identify a smell. You see, I don’t take everything someone tells me at face value. I like to ask those tough questions, such as, if a person has a big nose, does he also have more sensors and do smells affect him more? Dogs have great noses for picking up smells too, but at least I don’t feel the need to roll around in every nasty smell I come across. You’ll never find me rolling around in new-spread manure on the hayfield behind our house… at least not on purpose!

I will admit that the smell of manure (not liquid manure) brings back memories of wallowing around in it. I ended up rolling in it a couple times when I slipped off an icy board while pushing a wheelbarrow full of the “sweet-smelling stuff” from the barn to the large manure pile behind the barn. Admit it, some of you have probably been there too.

Not all smells in a house are pleasant either. Marjorie Haugen remembers her family sprinkling white sugar or cinnamon on the burner of a hot, wood-burning stove, to get rid of bad odors in the house. The heat released pleasant smells into the air. It was an early form of air freshener, before the canned variety.

Some other smells that come to mind are new-mown hay, freshly overturned sod, Lava soap, a wood-burning stove, and the summer air after a thunderstorm. All these smells bring back memories of moments we’ve experienced. Smells, both good and bad, are the fuel of our personal time machine.

Many Lights Have Gone Out

2011-01-08T17:38:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #321

The nights are long in the winter. When I go to work in the morning, the sun is just peeking over the horizon and it’s dark when I head home. It doesn’t leave any time to travel the back roads and enjoy the scenery. We do a lot of that in the other seasons of the year. Now it’s dark if we go out.

When I do travel back roads of this county at night, it’s very evident that the lights have gone out on many farms. There was a time when the countryside was dotted with the warm glow from the windows of farmhouses and barns. It made the cold nights of winter seem a little warmer. Each cluster of farm buildings was like a welcome island in a sea of darkness. You knew farmers were busy milking cows and the barns were full of life, noise, and activity. Nearby a warm glow also emanated from the kitchen windows of the house as supper was being prepared.

I thought about this the other evening as I drove home from work in the dark. As I passed the house where I grew up, there was no light, no warm glow, no sign of activity, no path or tracks in the snow leading to the door. The old farmhouse looked cold and lifeless. It has joined the ranks of so many other old farmhouses that are no longer lived in. Those drafty, uninsulated, old houses have not improved with age. The only source of heat for the upstairs in our old house was a small register in the floor of one room. Even that room was so cold by morning that frost and ice covered the windows and windowsills. You hated to put your bare feet on the cold floor when you had to get out of bed.

At the time, that was all we knew. Most of the people we knew lived in the same type of winter conditions as we did. We had no idea that some people lived in houses that had heat in every room. For those of you who lived in houses like ours, remember the wonderful designs that Jack Frost left on the windows each night. You had to scrape a hole in the heavy frost to see outside.

They may have been cold in the winter, but there was life in those old houses. The warmth came from old woodstoves and oil-burners, but the life and light came from the families who lived in those houses. Now so many farmhouses that once lit up the evening countryside are dark.

I hauled milk for over a year back in the early 1960s. All the farms I stopped at were small, family-run, dairy operations. Today, only a handful of those farms still have cows that need to be milked twice a day. The lights and life have gone out in most of those barns. At several places, the barns are gone, and in some cases, all the buildings have disappeared. I’m very aware that life has changed a lot since those days, but there’s a sadness about the loss of a lifestyle that was the norm for so many people at one time.

Farming involves long hours, seven days a week, in every kind of weather. It’s hard work, involves a lot of investment, and it’s hard to make a profit when milk and crop prices go down and gas, seed, fertilizer, and equipment prices keep rising. According to the Wisconsin Farm Bureau Federation, the average dairy farm in the state lost about $100 per cow per month last summer. Meanwhile, large food companies are making hefty profits and consumers are paying higher prices. Something is very wrong with that picture. Is it any surprise that so many lights have gone out.

Farmers are a tough, special class of people. I have a lot of respect for them. Farming was, and still is, one of the few businesses where a family can work together. That’s special. Unfortunately, many of us didn’t appreciate it at the time.

I left the farm after high school, but no matter where I went or what I did, the experience of growing up on a working farm had a big influence on me. The majority of people raised on farms have a work ethic that’s hard to find any place else, and it generally follows them no matter what they do in life. Even when I was in the army, the subject of farm boys came up. After we completed basic training, our platoon sergeant told several of us, “When I found out I’d be training guys who would be going to Vietnam with me, I told them I wanted Midwestern farm boys. They know how to work, they know their way around the outdoors in all kinds of weather, and they know how to shoot.” He got his wish. Most of us were Midwestern farm boys.

Times change and fewer and fewer kids have the opportunity to grow up on a farm in the country. Those of us who had that experience should consider ourselves lucky. There are many good memories to look back on. That warm glow from the windows on a cold winter night, as you walked from the barn to the house, with the sky full of stars above, is a great memory for many of us.

A Plethora of Winter Information

2011-01-01T20:23:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #320

The view out the windows, in every direction from our four-season room, is like a calendar picture. Snow clings to the pines and provides white caps to the bare branches of trees. The snow is so deep that even walking with snowshoes is a real workout.

As I sit here writing, snow is falling again. I could do without that. We have more than enough snow to last the whole winter as far as I’m concerned.

I imagine people who live in warmer climates wonder what we Northerners do all winter. I guess we sit around and talk about the weather. In my case, I write about it too, mainly because dealing with snow and cold weather occupies a lot of our time.

It seems like each time it snows, it also turns cold, bitterly cold in many cases. That’s when you put on several layers of clothes and a facemask just to go out and feed the birds. It’s not as simple as just filling the feeders when you live in the country. The wind howls and deposits huge drifts in any path that was open a few minutes earlier. I try to keep a path open to our LP tank, so Rich from Heartland Country Co-op doesn’t have to fight his way through three feet of snow to reach it. His job is tough enough in the winter. He filled it a few days ago, so we’re good for a while. Now that our fuel supply is taken care of, I’ve resorted to using my snowshoes to walk across the snow to feed the birds instead of trying to keep a path open.

I imagine some people think I should be writing about more important things than the weather, but when you live in the Frozen Tundra, weather ranks at the top of topics for discussion when people get together and talk. In days gone by, men would gather around the pot-bellied stove in a general store and discuss the weather. Now it’s hard to find a pot-bellied stove or a general store, so this column will have to do. We could talk across the fence, but the snow’s too deep along our fence-line to do much visiting there. I’ll probably get some negative feedback from people who have to work out in the snow and cold temperatures, when I talk about how nice the snow looks out our windows.

My good friend, David Giffey, is editor of the Spring Green Home News. Each week he writes a column called “Another Story.” In one of his columns he tells about an interesting discussion he had with a reader of his newspaper who was critical of things he wrote about, as well as things he didn’t write about.

He was accused of writing about trivial things, like Howard the Dog, when he should have been commenting on more important issues, namely war and body counts, specifically from the war in Afghanistan. The man had a son in Iraq at the time, and was against “Obama’s Wars.” David reminded him that the wars had been going on since 2001 when Obama was still a state senator in Illinois, and he had inherited both wars.

I found this discussion very interesting because my friend David is a Vietnam veteran, who served with the 1st Infantry Division. He knows all about war, first hand and up close. Like most of us who found ourselves involved in a war, he didn’t like what he saw and experienced either. David has been a peace activist for the 25 years I’ve known him. If there were more people with his strong convictions and courage to oppose war, perhaps this world might even experience peace one day. If you’ve driven along Highway 14 near Arena, Wisconsin on a Saturday morning and seen a man walking along the highway carrying a sign with a simple one word message, “Peace,” that’s my friend David. I hope none of the readers of this column are among the people who have thrown objects at him, shouted obscenities, or given him the one finger salute. I’m always puzzled how the word “peace” can bring out the worst in some people.

Now back to Howard the Dog that was mentioned by that man in his discussion with David. I was hoping he had named him after me, but David claims he didn’t. Darn! I think it’s a great name for a dog.

Speaking of names, in last week’s column I mention the card game “Wisk.” I meant “Whist.” I bet those of you who know your card games are wondering what Wisk is. I guess I’ll have to invent a game called Wisk now. Thanks to Matt, editor at the Jackson County Chronicle, who caught my mistake and alerted me, I was able to get the correct spelling in some papers. Maybe I can blame the Whist blunder on the weather and cold temperatures for giving me brain freeze. For those still trying to find the rules for Wisk, stay tuned. As David would say, “That’s another story.”

In this story we’ve discussed many important subjects: the weather, snow, bird feeding, LP gas, snowshoes, Obama, war, peace, signs, newspapers, dog names, card games, pot-bellied stoves, general stores, and brain freeze. Where else can you find such a plethora of information, other than visiting across the fence each week?

Happy Monopoly New Year

2010-12-26T17:32:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #319

New Years is the time of year when the old meets the new. The curtain falls on another year, and rises on a new one. Sometimes we wish the ball that falls in Times Square at midnight to usher in a new year, was a crystal ball that allowed us to look into the future and see what awaits us. But as we begin each new year, the unknown is always just around the corner where we can’t see it.

Perhaps the beauty of New Year’s Eve, is that it gives us a chance to start over. It’s when we make resolutions that we’re going to change our ways. We’re going to lose weight, start exercising, quit smoking, and the list goes on and on. Most of those resolutions quickly end up on the pile of good intentions gone bad.

I know I’ve made resolutions that are forgotten long before all the New Year’s Day parades and football bowl games are history. I’ll have to try and do better this year.

A lot of my friends have had health problems the past year or two. We’re getting older and it becomes even more important to try and stay in shape. I want to lose at least 25 pounds. That would certainly help take some weight off the arthritic hip I’m now dealing with. As someone once said, old age isn’t for sissies.

I’m not a party animal so I’ll leave the New Year’s celebrating to others. If you do go out and celebrate, make sure you have a designated driver or don’t drive. I want you back here next week so we can visit across the fence again. I plan to kick back in my recliner, do some writing, and try to stay awake long enough to watch the ball drop in Times Square. Since we’re on Central Standard time, I know it’s still an hour until “our” midnight, but I usually manage to make it and see if the new year feels any different.

When we were young, my folks never did much celebrating either. Many times, neighbors or relatives were invited to our place or we went to theirs. The adults played Whist or Dirty Clubs (card games), and us kids played Monopoly and tried to stay awake. It seemed like a much bigger deal back then if we could say we saw the New Year in. My cousin, Wayne, was usually with us, and we each tried to gain control of Park Place and Boardwalk so we could put hotels on them. It seems like I ended up going to jail a lot and going past GO and not collecting $200.

I haven’t played Monopoly for a long time now, but maybe I can find our old board back. It must be packed away in boxes we still haven’t opened in the basement, unless we gave it to one of the kids. By the way, we never did finish those Monopoly games we played on New Year’s Eve. When the New Year came, everyone headed for home because there were cows to be milked and chores to be done in a few hours. We put all the pieces and Monopoly money back in the box; where it often stayed until the next New Year’s Eve.

When I think back on those unfinished games, I realize that’s what New Year’s Eve really boils down to. We’ve lived another year and tried to play the game of life to the best of our ability. When the curtain falls on 2010, there will still be a lot of unfinished business, and a lot of things we meant to do but didn’t get done. In this case, we don’t get to box up the pieces and put the game away. As the curtain rises on 2011, we will continue playing. Just like the game of Monopoly, we don’t know how it will turn out. We can try to do everything right, pick the right cards, buy the right properties, and not take too many stupid chances, but sometimes we still get hit with unexpected problems. It has a lot to do with the roll of the dice.

No matter what happens, it boils down to staying in the game and continuing to play, even when the road ahead looks daunting. In life and in Monopoly, I’ve come to the end of some years, and wondered how I was ever going to make it. The mountains for many people seem very big at times. When that mountain looks too big to climb or overcome, instead of giving up, it’s time to look at it as a challenge and find a way to conquer it.

When I was cross-country ski racing, I never looked at how many miles I still had left to the finish or to the top of a steep climb. I concentrated on where I was, how to attack the next hill, and how many miles I had behind me. It’s easier to say, “10 miles down,” instead of “25 miles to go.”

May your New Year be filled with good health, happiness, and wonderful opportunities in life, just like in the game of Monopoly. May you never land on the Go To Jail square, may you find a Free Parking space, and when you pass GO, collect $200.

The curtain is rising on a new year and the journey continues. Have a great one!

The Kingdom of Driftless Beauty

2010-12-19T08:52:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #318 (Christmas Extra)
The following story runs in the Westby Times in their Christmas issue.

Fairy Princess Sonja sat on top of Three Rock Chimney, the highest point of Sunshine Prairie in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, trying to determine what was wrong. It was almost Christmas, but there was no joy in the kingdom. There was no snow, the Christmas lights kept going out, and no one had heard a word from Santa Claus since last Christmas. Sonja knew there was evil in the world and bad things sometimes happened, but righting those wrongs was her job, and she loved it. She felt very fortunate to be the Fairy Princess in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty.

Sonja pondered the words of Ole, the green-striped frog, who said that someone in the kingdom must be depressed or angry and causing all the problems. It was true that the Wicked Witch of the Southeast had cast a spell over the royal prince and princess and turned them into a Troll and one of the Billy Goats Gruff, but that happened years ago, long before the cow jumped over the moon, made the little boy laugh, and the dish run away with the spoon. Why should they still feel depressed or angry after all these years?

“By the way, I wonder what ever happened to that cow?” Sonja questioned out loud.

“What cow?” asked Ole, “Are you talking about the cow that Jack sold for the beans, that turned into the beanstalk, and where the terrible giant lived?”

“No, not that cow, the one that jumped over the moon.”

“Oh, that one,” said Ole, “I haven’t the froggiest idea, but I’ve wondered what happened to the dish that ran off with the spoon. Talk about your odd couple!”

“Enough of this talk,” said Sonja. “We’re getting off the subject. The problem is to find out who’s depressed and angry at this time of year. It’s causing some real problems. All the Christmas lights keep going out. We can’t have that happening now. This is supposed to be a happy, joyous time of year.”

So... aren’t you gonna’ find out who’s got a problem and get this whole light-dimming thing fixed?”

Just then a white dove appeared, landed on Sonja’s shoulder, and whispered in her ear.

“I have work to do,” said Sonja, as she climbed aboard Sun Dancer, her flying Unicorn, and with the white dove riding on her shoulder they were off.

They soon touched down in Mary’s garden, where Mary was sitting and looking quite forlorn.

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” said Sonja, “How does your garden grow?”

Mary looked up with tears in her eyes. “Not worth a darn, since the rain quit falling. My poor garden is drying up and everything is dying.”

“I’m sorry about that Mary, but I’m trying to fix the situation. I understand you may have an idea who’s causing the problems.”

“I was over at Prairie View Mall this morning, shopping for some low-moisture, flowering cactus plants for my garden, when I overheard the Butcher, the Baker, and the Candlestick Maker talking. It seems that Jack-Be-Nimble had tried to jump over a candlestick and didn’t clear the flame. They said he singed his you-know-what and vowed he’d get even with the Candlestick Maker. They said he was really angry and depressed. I think Jack’s your man.”

“Sounds like he may be the cause of all the trouble. I think I better visit Jack-Be-Nimble and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”

With that she was off in a cloud of dust. Normally she would have left in a cloud of daisies and rose petals, but due to the lack of rain and snow, the land was turning into a dust bowl of dying plants and flowers.

When Sonja arrived at Jack-Be-Nimble’s house, she found him lying on his couch still nursing his burns. He was depressed and angry, but not enough to cause the problems plaguing the Kingdom.

Sonja left Jack’s house and started down the street when she encountered a little girl sitting and crying by the side of Cherry Blossom Lane.

“Why the big tears, little girl,” asked Sonja.

“There’s not going to be a Christmas,” cried the little girl. After the rain quit falling this summer, everything started drying up. Now the Christmas trees are dying, the Christmas lights keep going out, it’s not going to snow this year, and Santa won’t be able to come. It must be the Grinch trying to steal Christmas again. Either that, or Scrooge has moved back into the Kingdom. There’s not going to be a Christmas, I just know it!”

“Now, now, little girl, there’s going to be a Christmas. I’m the Fairy Princess Sonja from Sunshine Prairie and I would never lie to you. Just because the leaders of the Kingdom have been known to lie, doesn’t mean that Sonja would lie to you. Now, put on a happy face and I’ll take a trip to the North Pole and see if I can get to the bottom of this problem. I’ll explain the situation to Santa and tell him all the little boys and girls are counting on him, and snow or no snow, he has to make the trip on Christmas Eve. Just keep that Christmas spirit in your heart and it will come.”

The little girl was smiling again as Sonja, the white dove, and Sun Dancer broke out their heavy coats and struck a course due North.

As they approached the North Pole they encountered increasing turbulence the closer they got. Sonja was almost thrown from the back of Sun Dancer as they made their final approach to the Reindeer landing strip. For being only a few days before Christmas, things seemed extremely quiet. There was not an elf in sight, no reindeer practicing takeoffs and landings, no stockpiles of presents, no nothing. As Sun Dancer glided to a stop on the runway, Sonja dismounted and looked around. Not a soul in sight. Something was very wrong here. She grabbed a bouquet of thorn-studded rose stems for protection and headed for the toyshop. Sun Dancer walked cautiously behind her and even the white dove seemed nervous.

She knocked on the door but there was no answer. It was unlocked, so she carefully opened the door and peered inside. The normally noisy and busy workshop was silent. Sonja moved cautiously through the huge workshop, past piles of unfinished toys, and headed for Santa’s desk. The huge rolltop desk, usually piled high with letters this time of year, now stood empty. Across the front was tacked a sign, “Gone Fishing,” signed: Ex-Santa Claus.

“What in the world is going on, Sonja said to the white dove, “It’s almost Christmas and Santa has gone fishing. We are in trouble.”

The white dove whispered in Sonja’s ear.

“Oh, why didn’t I think of that? Of course... we’ll find Mrs. Claus and ask her what’s going on.”

They left the Toy Shop and headed down the snow-covered walk, lined with candy canes, to the little cottage where Santa and Mrs. Claus lived. A ribbon of smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

Sonja grabbed the door-knocker shaped like a Christmas tree, and pounded it against the door several times. The door opened slightly and Mrs. Claus peeked out.

“Oh, thank goodness it’s you Sonja. I was afraid it was those people again.” She had a sad look in her eyes and paused to wipe a tear that was rolling down her rosy cheek. Haven’t you heard Sonja? Christmas has been canceled.”

“I don’t believe it,” said a shocked Fairy Princess Sonja. “Who canceled it and why?”
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Claus. She ushered Sonja to a cushioned rocking chair. “Can I get you a cup of hot cider? You’ve had a long trip.”

“I’d like that, but tell me what happened first.”

Mrs. Claus sat down and peered over the top of her granny glasses. “It all started about six months ago. These strangers came from a place called Mad Towne, beyond the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty. Said they were with the Down With Santa Claus Foundation and were canceling Christmas. They said it’s all a myth, and was time for Santa to stop this charade of making little boys and girls believe in something that didn’t exist. They said children needed to face reality and they were spreading the word that there was no Santa. They even outlawed Christmas programs in the schools. Claimed it was corrupting the minds of little children and making them live in a fantasy world. They brought their lawyer along to serve papers on poor Santa to cease and desist from further corruption of children’s beliefs or they’d throw him in jail. It’s over. Christmas has been canceled... forever.”

“Oh no,” Sonja said. “I can’t believe this is happening. All the little boys and girls are expecting Santa to arrive as usual in a few days. They’ll be heartbroken.”

“I’m sorry, but there was nothing we could do. They had a court order saying Christmas was canceled. Santa took it real hard. He had to lay off all the elves and send them home. I don’t know what they’ll do now. There’s not much of a job market for toy-making elves without Christmas. He also let the reindeer loose and they headed back to the wild. We’ve been worried sick about them because this has been the hunting season and they aren’t used to being out in the woods.

Santa was so depressed and angry about the whole affair, he put up a sign “Gone Fishing,” so people wouldn’t disturb him. Trouble is, he was too depressed and angry to go fishing. He’s been staying in the haymow of the reindeer barn. Just sits up there and worries about all the children who will be disappointed this year. He knows they’ll blame him. You’ve got to do something Sonja. I’m really worried about his welfare.”

“Now we know the source of all the problems back in the Kingdom,” said Sonja. It was Santa who was depressed and angry. The last person I would have thought of. But don’t worry Mrs. Claus, there will be a Christmas. But first I need to talk to Mr. Claus. We don’t have any time to waste.”

Sonja hurried off toward the reindeer barn with the white dove and Sun Dancer close behind. She didn’t bother to knock, but flung open the door and marched in.

“Santa, come down here. We need to talk.”

“Go away,” came a weak voice from the haymow. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“Santa, you have to come down. There’s much work to do before Christmas and we have very little time left.”

“Sonja, haven’t you heard? Christmas is cancelled. It is no more. I have the “Stop Christmas” restraining order right here in my hand, personally delivered by a lawyer of the party that’s putting an end to Christmas.” Santa waved the paper in the air so Sonja could see it from where she stood.

Are you going to let a little piece of paper get in the way of you and all those little boys and girls? Do you know how many children are counting on your arrival and how disappointed they’re going to be if you don’t show up? Listen to me Santa. If you don’t show up, then you really are a myth, just like those people claim you are. But we know different, don’t we Santa? You’re very real in the hearts and minds of all those children. What will they think if you don’t show?”

Santa’s head peered over the edge of the haymow as he looked down at Sonja.

“How would you feel if they told everyone there was no such thing as a fairy princess? They say I’m just a myth. I don’t know what to do. Look at me Sonja, I’m as real as you are!”

“We know that Santa, and now it’s time to prove it to all the children who are counting on you being real. Come on down. There’s a lot of work to do before Christmas.”

“But what about the restraining order? It says I can’t deliver presents any more or pretend to be something I’m not.”

“Are you going to let a small minority of the kingdom ruin Christmas for everyone who does believe in you? The only person who can stop Christmas is you. As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will never die.”

“You’re right Sonja. I can’t let all the children down. They’re depending on me, but how can we do it? I laid off all the elves and turned the reindeer loose.”

We’ll get everyone back. Leave it to the white dove, Sun Dancer, and me. Now get down here and back to your workshop. There’s work to be done.”

Before Santa could climb down the ladder, Sonja was out the door and on her way to Toymaker Coulee to inform the elves that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all and they all had their jobs back. The white dove flew off to the Enchanted Forest in search of the reindeer.

Before the sun had set behind the snow-covered hills of Wild Kitty Mountain, elves were streaming into the North Pole from every direction. They arrived on skis, snowshoes, by dog sled, and even by horse-drawn sleighs. Everyone was laughing and singing. It was a joyous day. Christmas wasn’t canceled after all.

Soon Santa’s Workshop was buzzing with activity. It was just like the old days, only better. As often happens when someone is in danger of losing something, it becomes even more appreciated.

As the sun of a new day arrived, there was a flurry of noise and activity outside the workshop. Santa ran to a window to look. With great joy in his voice and the twinkle back in his eyes, he exclaimed, “It’s the reindeer. They’re back. All of them, including Rudolph.”

Things were looking better all the time. They were way behind schedule, but they might just be able to pull it off. Santa was smiling again and his depression and anger were gone.

Back in the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty, it began to snow, all the lights on Christmas trees began to glow again, and this time they didn’t go out. Children everywhere ran to the windows and pressed their faces to the glass and looked out at the new falling snow. Smiles were seen across the Kingdom of Driftless Beauty and the happy, joyous spirit returned to the people. Christmas wasn’t canceled. No restraining order was strong enough to stop it from coming. Just as Fairy Princess Sonja had told the little girl, “As long as you have the Christmas spirit in your heart, it will come!”

Blizzards Are Good for the Soul

2010-12-18T16:35:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #318

The weather outside is frightful, but inside it’s so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let is snow, let it blow, let it snow.

The snow is falling in Sherpeland today. Well, it’s not exactly falling; it’s blowing sideways. The wind is really howling across the prairie. How windy is it? It’s so windy a bird flew by the window… sideways. The freezing rain that arrived before the snowstorm, created a layer of icy crust on the existing snow. The wind is so powerful, the ground-feeding birds under our bird feeder go sliding across the snow, propelled by wind gusts.

The birds have been in a feeding frenzy today. They seem to know there’s a blizzard coming. I counted twenty mourning doves at one time under the feeder near our window. When I was filling the feeder in the wooded area near the house, a chickadee landed on my hand and ate seeds I was holding. A nuthatch kept working down a branch and came within six inches of my outstretched hand, but couldn’t get up the nerve to hop onto my fingers. Perhaps another day, we’ll connect.

It’s now evening. This will be a cold, wet, windy night for our birds. They’ll need all the food they can get to keep their metabolism up and keep warm. Winter is harsh in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa for birds and animals. Many will die. We like to give the birds around us a better chance at survival by providing them a source of food. I guess you could say they’re our pets, even though they don’t give any affection and appreciation back, like you receive from dogs and cats.

At the moment our “pets” are in the middle of a raging blizzard. The weather forecast says we could have blizzard conditions tonight and tomorrow. I have news for them, step outside, the blizzard is here! The wind is roaring and no lights can be seen around the countryside. We’re isolated, alone in the midst of a blizzard in the country. Travel isn’t advised on any roads tonight or tomorrow. Even if we wanted to travel we couldn’t get out of our driveway. My only mode of travel at the moment would be on my snowshoes and that would be foolhardy with these high wind chills and whiteout conditions. We’re hunkering down and staying put for the duration.

This reminds me of old-fashioned blizzards we had when I was young. At least now I don’t need to go out to the barn and do chores and milk cows. That was always a challenge on days like this. Our old barn was quite drafty, and cold winds with sub-zero temperatures, sometimes froze the water in the drinking cups. It was even worse when a water pipe would burst. Those had to be tough times for all farmers and those problems never change. Blizzards and sub-zero temperatures still arrive each winter, and pipes still freeze.

When I was young, we never wanted a snowstorm, especially a blizzard, to arrive on Christmas Eve. Even Santa would have a hard time finding his way in a blizzard. Rudolph was good at leading the way through fog, but we weren’t too sure he could find his way in a blizzard. Plus, those strong winds could blow Santa’s sleigh and reindeer off course and he wouldn’t be able to find our house. As far as I know, Santa didn’t have a GPS when I was young. But he must have had a very good sense of direction and detailed maps, because he always found our house.

We never did get to visit with Santa like kids do now. Today there’s a Santa in every shopping mall where kids can tell him what they want. When I was young, Santa only made one visit to Westby prior to Christmas. If I remember right, he arrived on a flatbed truck and they parked it between two buildings on Main Street. Santa stood on the back of the truck and handed out bags of hard candy to all the kids. We never got to talk to him or tell him what we wanted for Christmas. I don’t recall ever writing Santa a letter either. Somehow he knew what we wanted and where we lived. But, I’m still a bit miffed with Santa for never bringing me that Lionel electric train I always wanted. I guess I should have written him a letter.

Those days when I waited for Santa to arrive are now history, just like the blizzard is history. Our road that connects us with the outside world is open again, but I liked being snowed in. The blizzard isolated us for a couple days, and allowed me to kick back and reflect. It was good for the soul. Maybe we all need a good blizzard every once in a while to help us slow down and get back in touch with what’s important. Life gets down to the very basics when Mother Nature unleashes her fury… shelter, warmth, and food. Birds, animals, and people, all need help at times. Providing our fellow travelers on “Spaceship Earth” with food, shelter, and love during trying times; is the best gift we can give any time of year.

Merry Christmas from my side of the fence to yours!

There's A Threat To Rural America

2010-12-11T21:13:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #317

This may be the most important “Across the Fence” column I ever write. I stay away from political issues in this column, but this issue could have a detrimental affect on the rural America that I write about and love. I can’t just sit on my hands and not let all of you, who live and work in rural and small town areas, know what your representatives in Washington will be voting on. There’s a serious threat to the future of a vital rural America. It comes in the form of the National Broadband Plan.

The National Broadband Plan is the FCC’s response to a congressional mandate to assure every American household has access to fast and affordable broadband service. Broadband in telecommunications, refers to data transmission, where multiple pieces of data are sent simultaneously. With wider broadband, more data can be sent faster. This affects your television and Internet service.

This plan should help rural America, but as it’s now written, it could hinder rather than advance broadband service for people in rural areas. This plan discriminates against rural customers by setting a speed standard that is 25 times slower than the speeds in city and urban areas. Support from the Universal Service Fund (USF) will only fund speeds up to 4 MB in rural areas, where it will fund speeds of 100 MB in urban areas. The FCC’s goal is to equip 100 million homes with 100 MB of service. Reaching that goal is much easier in urban areas than in rural areas. Without this support mechanism, many rural telecommunication companies will not be able to maintain service above 4 MB. Prices will be much higher for the same service in rural areas due to the lower customer densities and higher per subscriber cost of building and maintaining rural networks.

Broadband speed is vital to businesses competing nationally and internationally. Where 4 MB is adequate for most people today, tomorrow it will be as slow as a snail’s pace. It’s barely enough to download a Netflix movie or do some serious gaming on the Internet.

Let’s put what all this means to the information super-highway in another way. What if the federal government suddenly informed you that it planned to focus the majority of its transportation funds and resources on large metropolitan areas? Bigger and better roads would be built in those areas, while rural areas and small towns would have to get by with gravel and dirt roads. Urban people would be speeding along on their multi-lane, super-highways, while those of us in rural areas would be traveling slow, often bogged down, and barely moving, on the muddy, dirt roads.

Without access to the information super-highway, many rural businesses would find it hard to operate and compete. They would have to relocate those businesses to large, urban areas in order to have access to the higher speeds they need. Reliable, high-speed broadband is essential in today’s global economy in order to conduct business.

What will happen to small towns if businesses and industries had to move out of the area to stay in business? Employees would either have to move–if given the choice, or become unemployed. Unemployment is already too high in rural America. The loss of businesses and jobs will greatly impact all other businesses in those communities, including your local newspapers. It will have a domino affect. With less people and dollars to buy their products and services, other businesses will be forced out of business. Some small towns around the country could become ghost towns. This National Broadband Plan, as it is now written, is very anti-rural.

It’s time for everyone to exercise their voice and let their congressmen and U.S. Senators know they are against the National Broadband Plan. Let them know your concerns. Tell them you don’t want rural areas to be discriminated against and become second-class citizens when it comes to telecommunications. Urge them to support regulatory action that ensures equal access to broadband for all Americans, not just large urban areas.

Unless they hear from enough of us, this plan could become law and then it will be too late. The dominoes will begin to fall and who knows what will be left standing when the dust settles.

I always try to share positive stories as we visit across the fence each week. This story can still have a happy, positive ending, but it’s up to all of us in small towns and rural America to help write that ending. We can do it by exercising our right as Americans to voice our opinions. Don’t wait for someone else to write the ending for you or you may not like the way the story plays out. It’s time to stand up and be counted and not let our way of life be relegated to second-class status.

Let There Be Light

2010-12-04T18:46:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #316

Let there be Christmas lights. I can’t believe I’m the only person who has problems with those strings of Christmas lights. Tell me I’m not alone.

It never fails. I get the box out of the basement, where I had neatly packed the lights after using them last year, and as soon as I take them out of the box, they become all tangled up. I don’t understand it. There must be a “Nisse” living in our basement. They love to create all kinds of mischief if you don’t feed them on Christmas Eve. They usually live in barns, but the old barn on the farm was torn down a couple years ago, and I suspect the little bugger decided to hide out in our basement. He’s probably a long ago stowaway on a ship my ancestors came from Norway on. This Nisse is either really old, or a descendent of the original Nisse.

But here I am talking about Nisser (that’s plural) and many of you probably aren’t aware of them. How rude of me. You may not even believe they exist.

There are several types of Nisser in Norway. The best known is the “Fjøsnisse” which is a Nisse who takes care of the animals on the farms. He’s very short and often bearded and lives in a barn or stable. He wears clothes of wool and often has a red knitted hat. You should always give him a large portion of rommegrot on Christmas Eve if you want to keep him friendly toward everyone that lives on the farm. It’s important that you leave a bowl of rommegrot for the Nisse, who – according to superstition – is the protector of the farm. If you don’t leave some rommegrot for the Nisse, he may play tricks on you. Sometimes he scares people by blowing out the lights in the barn or scares the farm dog at night. He might move the animals around in the barn, braid the horses’ mane, or tie their tails together, and other tricks like that.

There’s an interesting story about one of my ancestral farms in Norway. This story is told in the Lund History book about the Ege farm.

In 1750, all the buildings on the farm burned down. There was a Nisse who lived on the Ege farm. He had lived there for a long time. The Nisse became completely impossible, and it was hard to live with him. My ancestors on the farm decided that they had to chase the Nisse away, and he fled from the farm as fast as his little legs could carry him. To properly scare him, they followed him and shot their guns after him. After he was gone from the farm he became nasty and returned to the Ege farm, and burned all the buildings down! Perhaps my ancestors on the farm, neglected to put the rommegrot out in the barn for the Nisse one Christmas and that started all the problems! If that doesn’t prove to you that the mischievous Nisse is real, I don’t know what will convince you. Now, I will admit, my ancestors probably had a bit too much Christmas beer to drink before they saw him and started chasing after the Nisse and shooting at him.

Enough about history, lets get back to the problem at hand. I think he’s also been tangling up and unscrewing my Christmas lights because I’ve never left any rommegrot for him.

I finally got all the lights untangled. There’s no use spending a lot of time putting a bunch of dead lights up, so I tested them first. They lit up. It was very cold outside. I could barely feel my fingers by the time I got the lights strung. Then I plugged them in to admire my lights and nothing happened. I discovered I’d forgotten to flip the switch inside. I flipped the switch and only half the lights lit up, even though they’d all worked a half hour earlier. After trying to find where the problem was, I finally gave up and bought new lights.

Good Lord, those old lights couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. I’d used them when we lived in Madison. Granted, I had spliced some wires back together that became frayed and broken in the wind, and had wound electrical tape over the splices, but they worked. Not that I’m cheap, but doesn’t anything last any more?

You’re probably saying, “That’s dangerous. He should have thrown the old ones away long ago.” You’re right, but how many of you have strung five or six strings of lights together, even though it says do not connect more than three? Also, how many of you use proper ladder safety etiquette while putting up the lights? I used to put an old rickety stepladder on top of an old wobbly picnic table in order to string our lights in Madison. I’m more careful now that I’m older. I don’t bounce as good.

Despite our problems with the Nisse tangling the lights and somehow making half of them not work, we now have new lights outside and they all work. We still need to put up our tree, so that could be another tangled lights adventure. Let’s hope the Nisse hasn’t messed with those lights.

November 22: A Very Special Day

2010-11-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #315

It’s November 22, 2010 as I write this. Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She died 18 years ago in 1992 at the age of 73. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone that long.

I never thought about it at the time, but it must have been hard having a birthday so close to Thanksgiving and falling during the Wisconsin deer-hunting season each year. I imagine her birthday was often neglected because large, family gatherings for Thanksgiving were the norm in my younger days. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and our Hanson grandparents always gathered together for a big feast at one of our places. Thanksgiving was always a big deal.

Many years we also had wet, foggy weather like we’ve had the past couple days, called case weather for all the non-tobacco raising people. If case weather arrived on her birthday, taking down the tobacco that had been hanging and curing in the sheds, took precedence over everything except the opening morning of deer hunting. Then even the tobacco had to wait until at least the afternoon.

When I was younger and taking part in all those activities, it never occurred to me that Ma’s birthday often took second place to other events. I think Dad usually bought her a card, but that was about the extent of acknowledging her birthday. We never went out to eat, like people do now. An occasional trip to the root beer stand in the summer for a hot dog and root beer was dining out for us. Boy, how things have changed! Other than that, Ma prepared all the meals, including those on November 22nd, her birthday. It must have been depressing to have your birthday pretty much neglected, but I never heard her complain. Deer hunting and tobacco always trumped any birthday celebration.

Her birthday in 1963 was no different. Deer hunting opened the next day and Dad had left for the Hayward area with a group of friends who always hunted together. I was living at home and hauling milk at the time. I hauled two loads of milk each morning to the Westby Cooperative Creamery. That was back when farmers put the milk in cans that weighed around 80 pounds when full. I hauled about 250 cans a day during the peak milk production periods. It took seven hours a day to complete my routes and I was usually done around noon. That was hard work and I have a lot of respect for the old milk haulers.

That Friday morning, November 22, 1963, Dad had milked the cows before they left for Hayward, but I would have to clean the barn when I completed my milk route. Shortly after 12-noon I was in the barn and started hauling the manure out, while listening to WISV, the Viroqua station on the barn radio. It’s now WVRQ. Sometime between 12:30 p.m. and 1:00 p.m., programming was interrupted for a special announcement – President John F. Kennedy had been shot during a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. No other details were available at the time. I quickly finished the chores and headed for the house to see if there was anything on TV about the shootings. We could only get two stations out of La Crosse at that time, and everything was in black and white. Ma, Grandma Inga, and I were watching a CBS special report from Dallas, when Walter Cronkite came on, took off his glasses, looked up at the clock, and reported that President Kennedy had died at 1:33 p.m. (CST).

I think everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing when they first heard that historic news. I had planned to go deer hunting in our woods that afternoon, but instead watched the continuous coverage of the assassination news for the rest of the day until it was time to do chores and milk the cows that evening. After David and I finished milking we were riveted to the news coverage the rest of the evening. Continuous live coverage of the events, including the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, continued until after Kennedy’s funeral.

It never occurred to me at the time, but Ma’s 45th birthday had been preempted by the president’s assassination. First deer hunting, case weather, tobacco, and Thanksgiving had relegated her birthday to the back seat, and then an assassination. I wonder if she even got a card or birthday cake that year—if we did have a cake she would have baked it herself—or were we all too busy with our lives and what was going on in the world to think of her?

She was always there for us, feeding us, taking care of us, and never complaining. It must have bothered her a little that her birthday often became secondary to all those other events. I thought about that today as I remembered her birthday.

When we lived in Madison, we always tried to get to the farm for her birthday and bring a cake with us. Even a great cook and baker like she was, shouldn’t have to bake her own birthday cake.

A year ago today, Tim proposed to our daughter, Amy. They were married in September. I think Ma would have liked that her granddaughter got engaged on her birthday. It makes November 22 even more special for our family.

I'm Thankful You're Still There

2010-11-20T19:23:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #314

I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving! This was, and still is, an exciting time of year with Thanksgiving and deer hunting occurring in the same week. I wish all of you venturing into the woods in search of that elusive whitetail, a successful and safe hunt! I’ll keep the coffee pot full and hot for you in case you get too cold and need to thaw out. I remember how cold it could get sitting in your deer stand for hours, waiting for that buck to show.

We all have a lot to be thankful for as we sit down to a Thanksgiving meal again this year; it’s just that too often we don’t take the time to express our thanks. I’m thankful for being able to visit with you each week, across the fence, via this column. Thank you for being there.

Today was very foggy here on the prairie. How foggy was it? It was so foggy, if we still had an outhouse I’d have gotten lost on my way to do my duty and wandered into an old tobacco shed instead. That lingering smell of curing tobacco would have led me there. To those of you not familiar with heavy fog this time of year, we called it “case weather.” That meant the tobacco hanging in the shed was ready to take down without damaging the leaves. It seems like case weather often came around Thanksgiving or deer hunting time. Tobacco had a way of interfering with everything when we were young.

I know I’ve told this before, but there’s something about this foggy type of weather that kicks in the old memories of taking down tobacco and stripping. I can almost smell the aroma of tobacco hanging in the shed. I’m glad I don’t have to climb up in a shed anymore and go to work! When we were young and agile, David and I could climb up those poles like a couple of monkeys. I can still hear Dad yelling up to us, “Make sure you check the poles so you don’t fall down and kill yourself!” That’s still a family saying for us when we want someone to be careful. I think it’s also become a yearly tradition of including it in my Thanksgiving issue story.

I’m thankful for the memories of those Thanksgivings of the past, when it seemed all the relatives lived within a few miles of each other. This time of year always reminds me of those days. Thanksgiving included our extended family; aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents getting together for the big feast. It was usually held at our grandparent’s farm across the road from Smith School. I can look out the windows of the room where I sit and write this story, and see the farm where they lived. The barn is gone, but the house and other buildings are still there. We used to have some wonderful Thanksgiving meals in that house. We didn’t have to go “over the river and through the woods” to get to grandmother’s house. We could have walked across the fields.

I continue to be thankful for having grown up on a farm, and now for the opportunity to live on a corner of that farm. There’s something to be said for rural, small town living. It’s easy to be swallowed up and lost in large, urban areas. You become a street number instead of a name. This point was brought home to me again this week.

I received a letter yesterday addressed to: Howard Sherpe, Westby (Vernon County) WI. There was a hand-written message on the envelope: Please deliver. Someone must know his address. Thanks!

There you have the basics: a name, city, county, and state. I thanked the Westby Postmaster for having it delivered to us. It was a wonderful, handwritten letter from a woman in Spencer, Wisconsin, who reads my stories.

When we lived in Madison, we had a letter returned to the sender as undeliverable because the street numbers were wrong. Our address was 1017 Chieftain Lookout. The sender had transposed the numbers and had 1710. I’ve got to tell you, there were only five houses on Chieftain Lookout and only one with Sherpe’s living in it. I guess we were just a wrong number, not a name. That’s kind of sad. I’m thankful we’re more than a wrong number in Westby.

That reminds me of the time Sandy and Lou’s daughter, Kris, sent my father a letter from Colorado. It was addressed to Uncle Hans, Westby, Wisconsin. The post office delivered the letter to him. Another time, our daughter, Amy, sent a card to my dad and addressed it: Grandpa Sherpe, Westby, Wis. No address. No zip code. And yet it was delivered to him. I guess that proves that in a small town, people not only know who you are, but they also know your relatives and where they live. That can be a scary thought to many people, but it can also be a comforting thought. People know you as more than just a number.

Speaking of numbers, this begins year number seven. I’m thankful that you take time to read this column each week. May your poles always be straight and strong, and never roll. But just to be safe… you better check them first. Don’t want you to fall down and get hurt.

The "Nam Brothers" Reunion

2010-11-15T20:50:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence 313 (Veteran's Day Extra)

November 12, 1966, somewhere in the Central Highlands of Vietnam, near the Cambodian border. A group of Wisconsin farm boys with the 4th Infantry, settle in to spend the night in sandbagged foxhole bunkers on the perimeter of a remote fire support base. We had no idea what horrors the night would visit upon us, and how the ghosts would haunt us for years to come.

Ray Slaback from Readstown, Harlan Springborn from DeSoto, Larry Skolos from Viroqua, and Howard Sherpe from Westby (that’s me), were drafted together in December, 1965, from Vernon County, Wisconsin. Don Hanson from Osseo, Wisconsin, was also drafted that month. None of us knew each other at the time, but that would quickly change.

We all became part of the 4th Infantry Division’s train and retain program at Ft. Lewis, Washington. We went through basic training together, went to Vietnam on a troop ship together as the advance party of the 4th Infantry, went ashore in the same landing craft, and spent our year together in Vietnam. Today they are my “Nam” brothers.

November 11, 2010 (Veteran’s Day). Forty-four years after we survived the November 12 attack, five of us reunited during the Veteran’s Day program at Westby High School, where I was the guest speaker. It was the first time all five of us had been together at one time since we left Vietnam. It was a wonderful reunion. There were hugs, smiles, some tears, and plenty of laughter, as five old friends, whose friendships had been forged in fire and shared experiences, were grateful to be with our “Nam Brothers” again. You can’t go through what we did together without developing a special bond. Perhaps Don Hanson summed it up best, “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

In my talk during the program, I told a short, sanitized version of the terrifying experience we had shared that night when we were almost overrun by 1,500 NVA. When Don and I finally reunited three years ago, he said, “Do you remember when Puff arrived and saved our butts?” How could I ever forget? “Puff the Magic Dragon” was a converted C47 that laid down 6,000 rounds a minute with their gatling guns. The rain of bullets cut the enemy down, like wheat in a field. If Puff hadn’t arrived, we have no doubt, we’d have all been killed.

The five of us getting together and talking was good for the soul. I had never mentioned that night to anyone, other than my four “Nam Brothers.” They hadn’t discussed it with anyone either. There was nothing heroic about it. Just a lot of frightened young men, who all thought they were going to die, fighting for their lives and their buddies. It was good to get those ghosts from our past out in the open. Perhaps now the nightmares of that experience will go away for all of us.

One thing still bothers us. There’s very little mention of that battle in any accounts about the war; just a short story in the Army Times that didn’t sound anything like what we had experienced. It wasn’t even given a name. We decided to call it “The Battle of Dedman’s Hill,” in honor of our friend, Leslie Dedman, who was killed that night.

I hope our reunion will give us all some closure and peace. All five of us went through some frightening experiences together. It’s good for us to know that we aren’t alone. We’ll always be there for each other. When we get together we’re able to find humor and great camaraderie in our shared experiences. To show you how strong those ties are, Don Hanson’s brother died and the visitation was that evening in Whitehall. He still came to be with us for the program that morning. That’s how important and strong this brotherhood is.

I think we’ve all made our peace with the war. We haven’t let anger, bitterness, or alienation destroy us. We’ve gone on with our lives, and hope they’ve been productive. Vietnam will always be a part of us, and we all accept that. We think it’s made us stronger, better people.

When we left Vietnam, we all went our separate ways, went on with our lives, and never even contacted each other. I think we all went into the Vietnam closet, as I call it. We had served in a very unpopular war. Vietnam vets became the targets for the country’s anger and protests of the war. It would be 32 years before Harlan, Larry, and I finally got back together. Then three years ago, Don and I got back together. This Veteran’s Day, Ray finally joined our Nam brotherhood. Ray summed it up for all of us when he said it was not wanting to revisit the memories of the past that took him so long to get reunited with us.

I like what Jack P. Smith, a survivor of the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley, and later an ABC News Correspondent wrote. “I’ve discovered that wounds heal. That the friendships of old comrades breathes meaning into life. And that even the most disjointed events can begin to make sense with the passage of time.”

Was the Vietnam War right or wrong? Was all the pain and suffering worth it? The five of us will leave that to the historians. I can tell you this, after our reunion, we stand united, five old Wisconsin farm boys, a band of “Nam Brothers,” who are proud to say we’re Vietnam veterans...and still alive.

Thanks for Visiting Across the Fence

2010-11-13T19:13:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #313

This brings to a close the sixth year of “Across the Fence.” Next week, Thanksgiving week, we begin the seventh year of this weekly column.

It’s time to thank the papers that run the column, and everyone who spends a few minutes each week reading it. I really do appreciate it. I hope the stories have stirred your own memories about subjects I’ve written about.

Each year I’ve heard from and met many of you. It’s been nice meeting those who have visited with me across the book-signing table. It was interesting to hear that many of you have been clipping the stories and saving them. One reader had been clipping and saving every column and had them in a scrapbook, so she didn’t need a book! “But I have all these great photos in the book,” I said. She still didn’t buy a book. Her scrapbooks with my stories mean a lot to me.

Writer Norbert Blei, who lives in Door County and reads Across the Fence, did a story about my newspaper columns. He received such a good response that he did a follow-up story.

He wrote: “Judging by the number of readers who responded in praise of the last installment of Local Journalism/Local Writing” (an introduction to Wisconsin writer Howard Sherpe), people want local columns of interest in their papers.

“Here’s another test of how meaningful your local paper is: When was the last time you clipped something from the paper ‘to keep’? A piece of writing (other than straight news)…a column, an essay, perhaps even a great photograph that affected you enough to want to keep it, come back to another time, put in a file, slip between the pages of some appropriate book, show to someone else, mail to a friend or relative?

“If your local paper isn’t giving you that kind of writing (at least some of the time) it isn’t doing its job…

“Howard Sherpe’s stories have certainly reached the prominence of ‘clip-able’–as many of his readers will attest to. Writings like his keep the home fires burning, the Midwest aglow in the things that matter between people, and the land that shapes them.”

Those are kind words from Mr. Blei, and they point up the importance of having a weekly column in a local newspaper. If that column can stir people’s emotions and memory, we as writers are doing something right.

A few years ago, my story about windmills stirred memories in Sid from Middleton, Wisconsin. I had never met him, but he sent me an old, tin cup that had hung on his windmill for many years. I treasure that old, weathered cup. It now has a place of honor on a shelf with other treasures. Sid and I began corresponding. We finally met and became friends. He died a couple years ago and I miss his e-mails about my stories.

This past year I also lost a classmate, friend, and faithful reader of Across the Fence in the Linn News-Letter in Central City, Iowa. Ardy was an English and Journalism teacher and often commented on my stories. I got many good ideas for columns from her observations about life. I miss her e-mails too.

I also want to mention Kay down in Mississippi. She wrote: “I always make sure to read your column, as it brings me back to the hills and valleys and people that I so miss. When I read your descriptions and stories, I feel like I’m almost there again. You’ve helped me through many bouts of homesickness.” Thank you Kay!

I want to thank Tom in Viola, who reads this column. He read my recent story about corn husking and how I wished I still had one of the old huskers. He showed up at my book reading at Bramble Books in Viroqua and gave me a corn husker. Tom’s corn husker will join Sid’s cup on that shelf of treasures that mean a lot to me. Thank you Tom!

Thanks to Kathy and Tim in Marion, Iowa for sharing their silo adventures with me. Thank you Tom, Lowell, and Anne in the Madison area for your feedback on many stories. Thank you Bob in Bailey’s Harbor for your insightful observations on life. Thanks to Wayne in Minnesota, Vicki in Indiana, Lou in Colorado, and Ken in California for commenting on stories that stirred your memories.

Thanks also to everyone who has told me about experiences they remembered, while reading something I’d written. As I listened, it reinforced what I’ve always said… everyone has a story that needs to be told. Share it with someone. Don’t take your stories with you when you leave this earth.

The last e-mail message I received from Ardy before she died said: “The new school year is underway. Where did the summer go? I’ll think of your lovely description of July and be reminded that ‘to everything there is a season’ and even some of the stupidity with teaching will wane and a new “field” will emerge. Kind of like you wanting to plant your yard full of wildflowers. And time marches on, doesn't it? But why does it have to march so darn fast??????”

Time does march on. It waits for no one. Thanks again for stopping for a few minutes each week and visiting with me across the fence. Next week, year seven begins.

Veteran's Day Thoughts - 2010

2010-11-07T14:38:00.000-08:00

Across the Fence #312

Today is just another day to most people; a federal holiday, a day off work for some, and a pain in the butt for many people and business’ because there’s no mail delivery. A few homes will fly the flag today. I’d bet veterans occupy most of them.

It’s now 43 years since I officially became a veteran. What does being a veteran mean to me?

First of all, I’m a veteran because I served in the army for two years. That alone qualifies me as a veteran. I also spent a year in Vietnam, but that service has no bearing on my having attained “Veteran Status.” That was just a part of the experience of becoming a veteran. I would still be a veteran if I had never served in a war zone.

I believe veterans have some important messages to deliver that people need to hear, but few people want to hear it. Straight talk, no glossing over, no political spin doctors, no stories of heroics, no John Wayne charging the enemy and wiping them out single-handed, no “Let’s go kick some butt” talk. None of that, just the plain sobering truth about what being a veteran is all about. In my case, one who survived a war. It’s about boredom, fear, sorrow, joy, depression, elation, anger, frustration, disillusionment, friends, enemies, thoughts of home, and finally, surviving and returning back home as a veteran.

Yes, veterans have much they can teach young people and anyone else who is willing to listen. Study the history of war. History tends to repeat itself, especially its’ mistakes. Look at political agendas and examine the motives of a government that wants to wage war against another nation and its’ people. Is the cause worth dying for? Are you willing to die for that cause? Are you willing to send your son or daughter to fight and possibly be killed for the cause? Is the cause worth the taking of a life on the other side? Would you take that life if ordered to? Are there peaceful alternatives that haven’t been fully explored before committing troops to fight?

Every veteran should be asking these questions before we let our government put another generation of young people in harm’s way. Veterans can and should educate the next generation on the pros and cons of war. We shouldn’t leave such important issues to non-veteran politicians, who have no idea about what being in a war zone is all about. A look through the resumes of our national leaders reveals a serious lack of people with “veteran status” setting the policies that are sending another generation of our young people to foreign battlefields to become names on a new wall of “Heroes.”

What does it mean to be a veteran? It means we’ve been to the mountain, we’ve seen the other side. Most of us didn’t like what we saw. We have some idea of the cost of sending another generation up that mountain. Not the cost in dollars, but the cost in human lives and suffering, both physical and emotional. Not to mention all the lost potential. Being a veteran means reminding people of the costs of war.

On this particular Veteran’s Day, I’ve been invited to be the speaker at the Westby Area Schools Veteran’s Day program. I’ve asked several friends I served with, to join me for the program. We were drafted together, went through basic training together, and served in the same unit with the 4th Infantry in Vietnam. We went through a lot together. We’re still close friends. I’ll talk about that special bond and how lucky we are to still be alive.

We served during a very difficult and unpopular war, when being in the military, and later a Vietnam veteran, was looked down upon, not just by the general public, but also by many veterans of previous wars who looked at us as a bunch of “losers.” We quickly learned that it was best to shed our uniforms and not draw attention to our Vietnam veteran status. Most of us put Vietnam in the closet and went on with our lives. It would be 17 years before I came out of that closet and sought out other Vietnam vets because it was tough for all of us to feel so isolated.

Being a veteran carries with it a responsibility, whether we want that responsibility or not. That’s why we all need to come out of the closet and let people know we served in that unpopular war. Our responsibility is to educate and inform people so they’re in a better position to make decisions regarding war and peace in the future. No school would allow me to teach in their classrooms unless I had been trained and experienced in the subject I was to teach, and had the proper credentials. And yet we allow leaders who have never been to “school,” send our young people off to join our veteran ranks.

Yes, being a veteran carries with it responsibilities, even though many, if not most veterans, prefer to sit quietly by and not get involved. I’d like to see all veterans, in all the nations, become bridge builders, helping build a strong and lasting bridge for peace among all people and all nations.

That would be a legacy all veterans could be proud of.